


whose waves are years

by eduwacee



Series: Temporal Shenanigans Verse [1]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Adam deserves a fair shot, Alternate Canon, Banter, Computers, Drabble Sequence, Drama, Fluff and Angst, Happy endings required, Language, M/M, Minor Violence, POV Alternating, Slash, So I'm giving him one, Time Shenanigans
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-23
Updated: 2013-06-23
Packaged: 2017-12-15 23:12:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 23,346
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/855074
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/eduwacee/pseuds/eduwacee
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which Gabriel plays with time, and Sam seems to always be running out of it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	whose waves are years

**Author's Note:**

> Okay, so I've never done anything like this before, but after watching Hammer of the Gods I knew I had to write me some SPN fanfic. Because I love Gabriel and it sucks that he's (probably) dead. Also, I've been stuck on time travel ever since I started reading Homestuck. This borrows heavily from the temporal theory used in that. Written almost entirely in drabbles, but I wasn’t strict on myself about the word count. Takes place in Season 2 AND in Season 5 (late in both seasons). I’ve taken some liberties with canon. This is un-beta’d, so please forgive any mistakes. Carry on, my wayward sons and daughters.
> 
> EDIT: Reposted this is one chapter since some readers didn't like the drabbles being split into so many chapters. Honestly, I got the idea from another amazing fic I read a looooong time ago, but I guess the format didn't really work for this. Anyway, that's all that has changed.
> 
> Disclaimer: I do NOT own these characters, or Supernatural in general. I don't even wish I did because possessing the kind of mind required to produce those feels would kill me. Some quotes are taken directly from certain episodes. I don't own those, either. I think I’ve marked any other quotes from other sources—if it’s marked, I don’t own it.

 

Unfathomable Sea! whose waves are years,

Ocean of Time, whose waters of deep woe

Are brackish with the salt of human tears!

Thou shoreless flood, which in thy ebb and flow

Claspest the limits of mortality!

 

And sick of prey, yet howling on for more,

Vomitest thy wrecks on its inhospitable shore;

Treacherous in calm, and terrible in storm,

Who shall put forth on thee,

Unfathomable Sea?

 

_Percy Bysshe Shelley_

 

**2007 – Sam**

 

**one**

“Really?”

The look Dean is shooting at him is disbelieving but smug, ‘I-totally-knew-it’ written all over his face. What Sam wants to know is, why do these things always happen to _him_?

“Uh, no,” Sam says, and to his embarrassment he feels his cheeks flooding with heat despite himself. Dean is leaning over his shoulder, nodding his approval.

“Nice,” he says.

Sam closes his laptop with more force than is probably necessary.

“Dude, like you’ve never walked in on me—“

Sam cuts him off. “Dean, I’m _not_ looking at porn. It’s this guy online, he keeps sending me…stuff.”

 

**two**

“So you’re saying some guy is sending you porn and you’re actually…” Dean throws one of the sandwiches from the greasy bag into Sam’s lap. “You’re actually looking at it. That’s…interesting. Is this something we should talk about, Sammy?”

There’s a hint of laughter in his brother’s voice. Sam sighs.

“He’s a _troll_ , Dean, proliferating porn is practically in his job description.” He picks up the wrapped sandwich, wincing at the slick feel of it. He’d asked for a salad, but apparently Dean wasn’t in the mood to be a decent human being today.

“So ignore him.”

“I can’t.” Sam frowns. “Sometimes he has really good information.”

 

**three**

Dean’s eyes are abruptly guarded. “Oh yeah? Like what?”

“Like stuff that isn’t in the lore,” Sam says carefully.

“So what, he’s some kind of expert?” Dean looks confused, his legs splayed as he leans back into the cheap vinyl of what passes for one of the motel’s chairs. “Or is he one of the—“

“One of the psychic kids?” An unexpected shock of heat explodes in Sam’s chest and he has a hard time keeping his tone level. “I don’t think he’s a freak. Just a hobbyist.”

“An armchair hunter, great.”

Dean doesn’t sound convinced. In retrospect, Sam is glad that he didn’t mention that the troll has rickrolled him twice already and pissed off at least three message boards that Sam is a member of.

 

**four**

_Anonymous830407 is online [5:30 pm EST]._

Anonymous: you’re welcome.

sw1967: if you dont stop ill block anon messages

sw1967: im serious

Anonymous: no you won’t.

Anonymous: mostly because you’re too smart to just throw away a bone when someone tosses you one.

Anonymous: but also

Anonymous: because you like me.

sw1967: what

Anonymous: admit it.

sw1967: what no

sw1967: listen i dont exactly have a lot of privacy ok?

sw1967: so you could at least mark this stuff as nsfw

sw1967: its common freaking courtesy

Anonymous: oh really.

sw1967: yeah really dude

 

**five**

Anonymous: i like how you assume that i’m male. i expected better of you.

Anonymous: misogyny is a terrible thing.

sw1967: ...

sw1967: im pretty sure a girl wouldnt embed a link to hot n horny housewives 3 in an anonymous email message

sw1967: classy stuff btw

sw1967: ill admit im only 99.87 percent sure that youre a guy

Anonymous: Schrodinger’s penis

sw1967: what

Anonymous: until you look, it both is and isn’t there

_Anonymous830407 has signed off [5:37 pm EST]._

sw1967: omg

sw1967: no

 

**six**

Tired, dust-covered roads, two-dimensional earth, the upturned bowl of the sky. It never stops. This far into the Plains States, trees are a mythological construct. The landscape blurs by the windows of the Impala like a fast-forwarding tape. If Sam stares at it for too long he can feel his stomach turning in on itself. He shuts his eyes tight, tries to focus on the rumble of the engine through his seat. Tries to ground himself. The dying light shines redly through his eyelids.

When he opens his eyes again, he's in the dorm room he was assigned to his freshman year.

Somehow he knows that he's dreaming, which has never been a good sign before but he doesn't see any clowns or Nazis around so after a few minutes of pacing the stained linoleum, he relaxes. Breathes in. He can smell food from the cafeteria downstairs and his stomach gives a rebellious rumble. He goes to the large window, leans over the air conditioning unit to peer down at the parking lot below.

It takes him a little while to realize that he's been here before. Not just in real life--he's dreamed it. Maybe many times.

 

**seven**

"Right on the mark, as always."

A man is standing right next to him, close enough that their sleeves brush together. Even though Sam recognizes him--how could he ever forget?--he can't summon up the fury that would usually fill him at the sight.

"There's a reason I chose you," the man continues languidly, strange eyes flicking over to look Sam up and down with an uncomfortable consideration. (What color is that, exactly? Sam wonders. It reminds him of: congealed honey. The last dregs left in a beer bottle. Dying leaves.) "Well, _reasons_."

"And what would those be?" Belatedly, he realizes he should have asked what he's been chosen _for_.

"Convenience," the man says. He grins. "That's a biggie. No sense in over-exerting myself, right?" He tilts his head. "And of all of the possible yous, you’re the most like him with the least damage.”

“Whatever,” Sam says. He doesn’t even bother to ask who this “him” he’s supposedly like is. He's tired of being special.

The man’s eyebrows rise in feigned astonishment. He’s at least a head shorter than Sam, but somehow he gives the impression of being much, much bigger. “Wow, not even morbid curiosity. I kind of miss playing twenty questions with you.”

 

 **eight  
** “Ready, kiddo?”

Sam realizes he’s spaced out and he can’t help flinching when the man presses two fingertips to Sam’s forehead. There’s a sensation of dry warmth and—

And pain.

And blood.

Lots of blood.

 

 **nine  
** “Well, there's gotta be something. There's gotta be some way, whatever it is, I'll do it. Don't, Dean! I'm not gonna let you go to hell, Dean!”

A little girl who isn’t really little, and isn’t really a girl, either. Cookie cutter suburban house. Everything is in high contrast, the shadows pooling strangely. Unnatural light glints off of a blade. The air trembles. The irises of Dean’s eyes are just a thin green band and Sam feels like he’s falling into blackness.

“No! Stop! STOP IT!”

The voice is so raw and broken he barely recognizes it as his own.

“I wish to God I could stop.”

Bitter, metallic taste on his tongue. He gags.

Light. So brilliant it is almost audible.

“I’m an angel of the Lord.”

Is this…can it be real? What’s happening?

The sound of his heartbeat wild in his ears. His brother’s voice, distant, desperate. Ignored.

“You turned yourself into a freak. A monster.”

“What…what did I do?”

“I’m sorry…”

 

 **ten  
** “I’m sorry—“

“For _what_?”

Night has fallen. Sam blinks, rubs at his face. His cheeks are wet.

“Man, you are such a pussy,” Dean remarks. They’re pulling into a tiny parking lot, the Impala’s headlights clashing with the tacky sign announcing the café’s name in neon letters. “What, were you having a bad dream?”

Sam shrugs, only half listens as Dean tells him what to order. His head feels tight. The dream is already gone from him leaving behind only a vague sense of foreboding. He feels like he should probably try to hang on to those memories, but they keep slipping away. It’s like trying to hold onto water.

“Hey, don’t forget the extra onions this time, huh?”

“Dude, I’m the one who’s gonna have to ride in the car with your extra onions,” Sam protests.

The night air is cool against his skin. A soft breeze picks up, whips his bangs into his eyes.

“Hey,” Dean calls out. “See if they’ve got any pie.”

 

**2010 - Gabriel**

 

**1**

The thing about archangel blades is that they are pretty much unstoppable. Anything—any _one_ —unlucky enough to find himself on the wrong end of one is guaranteed a swift and certain death. Not just the boring, mortal kind of death. True death, the obliteration of every particle of the self, gone like it never existed at all. Well, the energy is still there because hello, physics, but it’s not in any form that’s useful to anybody. Do not pass go, do not collect two hundred dollars.

Ghosts, hellhounds, demons, angels—ha, of _course_ humans—there are not many beings that can survive an encounter with an archangel blade.

Gabriel is not the exception to that rule.

 

**2**

By the time Gabriel realizes he’s in a dead-end timeline, it’s almost too late.

Comparing his mind to a human’s is like comparing the Titan supercomputer to an abacus, so almost immediately he knows where the split happened. He always visualizes time like a tree with infinite branches and one ineffable root, and currently he is on one tiny little limb branching off from the trunk, just waiting to be pruned.

He never should have left those idiots to face their fate at the Elysian Fields. Technically, many of the possible Gabriels did _not_. But this one did. After Kali had gone all mortal combat on him, he’d jumped ship, unwilling to deal with creatures that were so determined to paint a target on their backs. That included the Winchesters. The brothers escaped, he knows that, but apparently Gabriel’s own presence was required by the powers that be. He’s probably already dead in the alpha timeline, he thinks pessimistically. It’s too bad he can’t stay here, riding out the Apocalypse from a comfortable distance.

But dead-end timelines always end really, really badly, and if his alpha-self is dead he’s entrusting the fate of the world to the Winchesters—yeah, the same guys who can’t even handle their feelings, let alone the Father of Lies, Bringer of Death, Angel of the Bottomless Pit, et cetera. Gabriel’s brother.

Lucifer.

 

**3**

The laws of causality don’t apply to Gabriel. Nor do the laws of gravity, relativity, or space-time. Not if he doesn’t want them to, anyway.

It’s one of the perks of being a nigh-omnipotent archangel.

It’s nothing to him to grasp the edges of the universe and pry them open, revealing the metaphysical cogs that make everything tick. He messes around a bit until he feels himself passing through the dark matter in between, until his corporal feet are shuffling in the dirt outside a motel that is not a motel in a time that is not his own.

 

**4**

When he sees himself dead—his vessel crumpled on the floor of the meeting room and his Grace nowhere at all, just dispersed into whatever lies beyond eternity—he knows that he’s gone too far ahead.

Back-track to Kali goring him with his own knife—well, sort of his own, it’s _technically_ his, though of course it isn’t his archangel blade.

He cloaks himself, waits until the other Gabriel corporates outside of the motel. Yeah, this is it. The branching paths, the two choices: either leave or stay and fight.

As Gabriel listens to Dean Winchester proselytize his other self, who is scowling and protesting in the backseat of a truly awesome ’67 Chevrolet Impala, he feels something in him _shift_. So this is why his other self will stay. In his own timeline, he hadn’t stuck around long enough to get the Speech. The kid has talent, even if he is kind of a dick.

 

**5**

His other self doesn't seem pleased to see him.

“So, this whole self-sacrifice thing is new,” Gabriel says, to goad himself. Of course it doesn’t work; the other Gabriel only smirks.

“I take it you’ve seen it too, and you don’t like the ending.”

He leans up against the side of that glorious car, his eyes fastened on the Winchester boy’s retreating back. Has to bite back a laugh because the kid looks so damned _determined_.

“I die either way,” Gabriel says.

His other self shrugs. “Dead-end timelines. They suck.”

“You’ve never been in one. You’re the alpha.”

“I hate the _idea_ of them.”

  
 **6**

The thing about Gabriel is, he always has a plan.

Maybe not good ones, maybe not even entirely _sane_ ones, but still.

“What do you think of killing a _lot_ of birds with one stone?” Gabriel says.

 

**7**

The satisfaction of telling his (selfish, neurotic, deceitful) older brother to grow the fuck up is almost worth the pain of being dismantled atom by atom by the sharp, cool pulse of the archangel blade.

Almost.

 

**2010 – Sam**

 

**1.0**

Sam has way too much to worry about without adding how—and why—the archangel Gabriel is sitting cross-legged on Bobby’s couch. Also, he has commandeered Sam’s laptop. He doesn’t even seem to be typing; Sam watches as words and numbers fill the screen, faster than he could possibly read them even if he wanted to.

The tension between Sam and his brother is too great to be in the same room together for longer than a few seconds. Dean looks like someone who…has been through exactly what he’s been through, actually. He looks terrible. Like his insides are made of shattered glass.

Like he’s been betrayed.

Sam knows the feeling, because he’s empty inside except for the constant low burn of the anger that threatens to rise at every turn.

He wants to kill something.

He wants to…he wants to scream.

He wants to leap into a hole and never see day again.

“You’ll probably get that wish, Aladdin,” Gabriel assures him.

 

**2.0**

Sam figures Lucifer’s cage is probably, maybe like a hole—a black hole—full of things out of horror films—but a hole nonetheless, so he kind of has to let that one slide.

 

**3.0**

There’s no end-of-the-world party this time. Just Sam and Dean studiously avoiding one another, and Cas (Sam swears to God) making _eyes_ at Dean, and Bobby…

Bobby making Sam feel like someone, at some point, should have said: you know what, this one is defective, let’s put it out of its misery before it can bring on Armageddon and become Satan’s Sunday best.

Before it can break the hearts of everyone around it.

Or kill them.

The archangel took off hours ago, long before they started packing up the van to head out to the pharmaceutical plant. He’d just set Sam’s laptop aside, had some kind of nonverbal conversation with Cas, and then said aloud, “Well, it’s been fun,” and was gone before Dean could take the monumental breath needed for whatever furious speech he was planning to give Gabriel.

Sam could imagine what his brother wanted to say.

But in the end, it doesn’t matter.

Most of the universe seems to be conspiring against them. What difference does one more person—even if he _is_ a seemingly indestructible archangel—make?

 

**4.0**

“Still,” Dean insists, “the bastard could’ve helped us with the rings.”

Sam shrugs.

“All right, well...” Dean shoves his hands in his pockets. “Good luck stopping the whole zombie apocalypse.”

Sam kind of half-smiles. “Yeah. Good luck killing Death.”

 

**5.0**

In that endless, timeless moment that Sam is falling into Lucifer’s cage, his arms wrapped tight around an enraged, screaming Michael, he thinks he hears a voice. It’s as calm as a summer night in Kansas, like the owner doesn’t really care one way or the other. That’s what makes it stand out.

 _I can make it easier for you_ , it murmurs, _so that you won’t have to spend forever with these guys_.

Michael is ripping at Sam’s face. The vacuum is tugging them steadily downward—or upward, it’s hard to tell.

“How?” Sam grunts it out against Michael’s shoulder, struggling to keep hold of him.

_I can unmake you. It’s not as bad as it sounds._

The blackness around them is infinite. Even the wind is dying—and Sam can feel Lucifer in his blood, burning cold, struggling to rise once more and push him into an even deeper blackness.

 _Dean_ , Sam thinks, with all of the parts of him that are still his. _Dean, Dean…_

But he says, “Okay,” and then knows no more.

 

**2007 – Sam**

 

**eleven**

“How could you?”

Ava’s pretty face is twisted with dark humor, and the expression in her eyes would freeze boiling oil. “I had no choice,” she says. “It was me or them. After a while, it was easy. It was even kind of fun. I just stopped fighting it.”

Sam goes on auto-pilot. He can hear himself replying, but his keeps his stance light, his senses focused and ready for a fight. She’s going to strike at him. She’s trying to distract him with her voice, her nonchalance.

Her hand goes to her head.

Sam has enough time to think, _Oh shit, demons,_ and then—

Nothing happens.

And keeps happening.

It’s like someone hit pause. He can count the fillings in Ava’s teeth because she was caught with her mouth half open.

He’s blinded by a sudden, blazing light. He throws out his hands to catch himself as the room shudders and he falls to the floor, glass flying out of the windows and from the light fixtures. A high-pitched wail in his ears. He thinks they might be bleeding.

“Fear not,” a voice booms out.

“Oh, _fuck_ ,” says Sam.

 

**twelve**

The light dies out as quickly as it appeared and when Sam looks up he can feel all the color drain from his face.

“You,” he manages.

“Oh, relax,” the Trickster says, leaning casually against the wall. “Just messing with ya.”

“You’re…” Sam pulls himself off the floor, wiping at a wetness on the side of his jaw that turns out to be blood. “You’re supposed to be _dead_.”

“Kid, you have no idea.”

“And how are you even here?”

“Temporal shenanigans,” the Trickster says.

He's not even sure why, because they've only met the one time and that had been...weird...but Sam's dislike is sudden and intense. He just knows that he hates this guy. 

“Yeah, I’m aware of that. Sadly, our relationship never really gets any better. You could use some therapy, Sam. Those anger issues are no joke.”

 

**thirteen**

“What do you want?” No real weapons, not much that could be fashioned into one. Sam has always heard that bad things come in threes, but he can't imagine what could be worse than what he's currently dealing with.

The Trickster's eyebrows rise. “You, Sam, have less imagination than I gave you credit for.”

“ _Stop_ doing that.” There should be some kind of lock you can buy for your mind. Or whatever that thing was that Harry Potter learned to do to protect his thoughts from Voldemort. Sam has never appreciated before how creepy telepaths are.

“Or not,” the Trickster says wryly. “It was occlumency, by the way.”

Sam resists the urge to ask when exactly a being like the Trickster would find the time to read Harry Potter.

“As fun as this is, I think we should get this party going.”

The Trickster snaps his fingers together.

 

**fourteen**

Sam's head explodes.

Or at least, it feels like it does.

When he can think clearly again, he finds himself splayed on the floor, blood dripping onto his trembling hands. He wipes at his streaming nose and quickly figures out the source of all the blood.

“H-holy crap.” He stares up at the wide, satisfied grin the Trickster—no, the archangel Gabriel, Jesus fucking _Christ—_ is giving him. “Hoooooly crap.” Ava is still poised in mid-summoning; nothing else in the room has changed. Except that _everything_ has.

“They aren't memories, exactly,” Gabriel says. He pulls something out of his pocket and Sam stiffens until he sees that it's just a banana-flavored Laffy Taffy. “Well, they're your memories of the dreams I sent you and then buried very deep in your cute little human subconscious. Nifty trick, right?”

Sam breathes harshly through his nose, trying to calm his racing heart.

“I figured if you were going to fill the hole the other you left behind, you'd better be up to speed.” Gabriel tilts his head and for a moment, there's something more than the over-the-top humor he usually hides behind. Something sharper and colder in his expression. “Won't your brother be surprised.”

 

**fifteen**

“Dean,” Sam says, and his heart drops.

“Poor guy,” Gabriel says cheerfully. “He's pretty broken up about what happened to you. The other you, I mean. It all gets kind of tangled, doesn't it, Rapunzel?”

 

**sixteen**

Gabriel intends for Sam to go back with him to an alternate timeline where Sam is dead— _very_ dead, Gabriel insists—and where Dean is absolutely bereft. There was an Apocalypse (narrowly averted), and there were angels, and somewhere along the way the other Sam became something that _this_ Sam can't even wrap his head around.

Sam's hands are cold even through the fabric of his jeans. He thinks he might be a little overwhelmed.

“I'm not gonna do it,” he says. “It's...it's totally crazy. And what about Dean? _My_ Dean, the one _here_?” He shakes his head. “I'm not going anywhere.”

“Oh.” Gabriel tilts his head to the side, his amber eyes bright. “I forgot to mention that you're about to die.”

Sam scowls.

“Yeah, I know.” He pats Ava on her frozen ass in a very non-angelic way. “Hell hath no fury. In _this_ timeline, she's about to tear you limb from limb, Sam. And your darling brother—bless his heart--tries to sell his immortal soul for your life, but long story short, you just stay dead forever. It's tragic.” Gabriel sighs, unwrapping another Laffy Taffy. “So I'm your best shot at happily ever after. Or as happy as things ever get for you Winchesters.”

 

**seventeen**

“And if I still say no?” Sam says darkly.

“Hm.” The room feels colder. Goosebumps rise on Sam's arms. There's a strange timbre to Gabriel's voice when he speaks again. “I'd be disappointed. But there are other candidates, you know. Other Sams.” The archangel's lips quirk up. “Infinite numbers, actually.”

“Yeah, I...” Sam swallows. “You're talking about some kind of, of multiverse, right? Okay. I just...”

 _I can't process it_ , he thinks despairingly. _I can't accept it. Things couldn't have gotten that bad. I'd never—I'd never_ be _that._

 

**eighteen**

Except that he totally _could_ be that, his newly acquired memories claim.

In the end, he doesn't so much give in as give out.

 

**2010 – Sam**

 

**nineteen**

Sam isn’t sure what he was expecting, but it wasn’t this. 

The motel room is just like a thousand others he’s been in, right down to the tacky dividers and yard-sale picture frames. He turns in a slow circle and is so on edge that he barely flinches when Gabriel appears in front of him seemingly out of nowhere. His kingdom for a gun—or a knife, or anything to give him at least the illusion of protection. His hands itch with emptiness.

Gabriel gives the television a stern look and it flickers on. His pale eyes slide over to Sam and suddenly Sam feels even more out of his depth than before. This must be how those butterflies pinned to pegboards feel. But the smile Gabriel gives him is deceptively jovial, and the incongruence throws him.

“All right, class,” the archangel says, “this is the last lesson before the exam and you’d better pay attention.”

Sam looks down and he’s sitting in one of the nubby, flower-patterned easy chairs. The television is less than three feet away and he finally notices that it isn’t broadcasting the usual daytime fare of talk-shows and infomercials. The picture is a little distorted, and the suburban house in the background in unfamiliar, but Sam would recognize the man walking up the drive, his head bent over a fanned set of letters, anywhere.

 

**twenty**

“Dean,” he says, and he hates the way his voice breaks. 

“Bingo,” says Gabriel. 

Sam’s knuckles are white, his hands clenched tightly on the armrests. “What is this? Why’re we here? Take me to my brother.”

“Whoa, tiger, everything in good time.” Gabriel rests a hand on Sam’s shoulder, and the strength of it is unbelievable for a guy who is so small. “Look, we’ve covered most of ‘the story thus far’—“ He even makes air-quotes, the bastard. “—but you should see what Dean-o’s been getting up to recently. It’s been…” He flicks his fingers. “Roughly three months since the apoca-wasn’t. Got it? The other you has been dead for three months. If you want to stand a chance of taking up where he left off, you gotta have all the information at your disposal.”

Something is tugging at the edges of Sam’s thoughts. He watches Dean stick the stack of mail he’s carrying under his arm and raise a hand towards some guy waving to him from across a high fence in the yard. 

“You’ve changed other stuff,” Sam says with sudden certainty.

He looks up, but Gabriel is already gone.

\----------------------------

**twenty-one**

After a few hours, Sam gets tired of watching Dean live the American Dream. So far, he’s seen his brother set off for his job (as a carpenter, for God’s sake) after kissing a pretty, dark-eyed woman Sam doesn’t recognize goodbye…a woman who, Sam realizes, might be Dean’s girlfriend or even his wife, and _that_ just blows his mind. The picture went black for a few seconds and then Dean was leaving work, climbing into an old pick-up truck and gunning the engine. Back home now, Dean is throwing a ball to some kid with truly horrific coordination.

Sam is bored, despite himself, and starving. He can’t remember the last time he ate. Out of curiosity, he reaches over and plucks the phone receiver up. He isn’t surprised when there’s no dial tone at all. Just empty air. He briefly considers calling out to Gabriel. The guy’s an archangel when he isn’t moonlighting as a pagan god; he would probably be able to hear Sam’s voice across whatever distance separates them. But he decides against it when he catches sight of a laptop on the bottom shelf of the bedside table. 

When he pulls it out and boots it up, he realizes it isn’t just any laptop. It’s _his_ laptop. 

 

**twenty-two**

He doesn’t waste time wondering how it got here. Instead, he closes his eyes and tries to think of who he could contact.

Not Dean, obviously. Or Bobby. They’d freak out, probably wouldn’t believe him even if he _could_ catch them online.

He only has a couple of online friends he speaks to with any regularity.

How many of them are still around? According to Gabriel, it’s 2010 and Sam has lost all that time in between. 

He’s pulling up every message board and social network he’s ever joined in separate tabs when his instant messenger bings.

 

**twenty-three**

_Anonymous830407 is online [4:02 pm CST]._

Anonymous: DON’T PANIC

sw1967: i cant believe youre still around

sw1967: and why would i be panicking

Anonymous: i assumed that anyone pulled through a dimensional vortex into an alternate future would feel a little unsettled

Anonymous: but, silly me, forgot who i’m talking to.

sw1967: who the fuck are you

Anonymous: wow, you really thought i was just a troll, didn’t you

sw1967: no

sw1967: i thought you were just some guy with an interest in the paranormal

sw1967: or maybe even a hunter

sw1967: and thats a big maybe

Anonymous: i’m not a hunter

sw1967: ive been jerked around enough for one day a straight answer would be great 

Anonymous: okay, fair enough

Anonymous: i’m a messenger

Anonymous: _the_ messenger, as a matter of fact.

_[sw1967 has signed off (4:23 pm CST)]_

_[sw1967 is online(4:27 pm CST)]_

Anonymous: wait, no

Anonymous: don’t sign off again, sam

 

**twenty-four**

sw1967: so im guessing it was intentional

sw1967: leaving my laptop here for me to find

sw1967: what i dont get

sw1967: is why youre going through all this trouble

sw1967: when you could just tell me to my face whatever you want to tell me

Anonymous: sam

sw1967: but you were probably looking forward to the big reveal right gabriel

sw1967: everythings a goddamn joke to you

Anonymous: SAM

Anonymous: sam time doesn’t work for me the same way it does for you.

Anonymous: i’m talking to you from about three months ago.

sw1967: sure

Anonymous: i’ve already left, right?

Anonymous: are your memories intact yet

Anonymous: i need to know what page you’re on before i go paradoxing us all.

Anonymous: that would be bad btw

 

**twenty-five**

Sam stares at the screen, his jaw working. 

His fingers fly over the keyboard, but he keeps pressing backspace, letting the letters delete themselves from the message bar. He’s seen the kind of trouble the other Sam got into by letting his anger rule his reactions. He’s sitting cross-legged on one of the beds and he lets his head fall onto his hands, exhaling harshly.

Finally, he types: you killed dean 102 times

 

**twenty-six**

sw1967: i remember THAT

Anonymous: believe it or not

Anonymous: i’m trying to reform my evil ways.

 

**2010 – Gabriel**

 

**i.**

“What do you think of killing a _lot_ of birds with one stone?”

Gabriel thought it sounded like a plan, especially if he got to avoid a violent, painful death. 

And if he did Dean Winchester a good turn, well, that was just gravy. A debt well paid. 

He side-stepped out of the steady flow of time as his other self—his doomed self—disappeared to confront their wayward brother. 

His mortal form vanishes in the in-between place. He can only be himself here. Just a crackling, sentient mass of energy, and if any human eyes were to rest upon his magnificence now, those eyes would melt out of their sockets. 

Here, everything that has ever happened or can ever possibly happen exists in one endless moment. 

So no time _really_ passed while Gabriel searched the cosmos for the perfect Sam. If it had, civilizations would have risen and then fallen, and everyone currently alive on earth would be the memory of dust. 

Gabriel has a tendency for carelessness, but this one thing he was determined to get right.

 

**ii.**

Some were too broken to be of any use.

And some were already dead, or had never existed at all.

Gabriel sifted through what was left, watched the infinite lives of Sam Winchester like they were showings in his own private movie theater. 

He has never analyzed one creature’s existence so deeply, and he’s still surprised at the disturbance it provoked within himself. Familiarity is supposed to breed contempt, but Gabriel found that, after a while, he was mimicking every first breath, bent low over Sam’s newborn face to catch the darkness in his eyes when they first opened. He could almost feel it when Sam was experiencing pain, and a thrill shocked through him like a comet in Sam’s most joyful moments. 

The strangest thing was that through every potential timeline in which Sam and his brother existed together, a low thrum of adoration pulsed inside of Sam, sometimes hidden beneath years of resentment and at other times worn on his sleeve like a badge of honor. 

It was all too much. 

But Gabriel could not look away.

 

**iii.**

On the rare occasion when an angel dies, their Grace disintegrates and it leaves behind an echo of itself that very much resembles a human soul—so that is what it is called by the angels. None of them know what becomes of the echoes after that. It is assumed that they ascend to some place of their Father’s choosing.

It was entirely by chance that Gabriel noticed Castiel’s tattered soul shooting by him in the formless void.

 _Whoa_ , he said, and grabbed without thought. 

If it had happened within the confines of reality, that touch would have destroyed them both, but here…anything was possible. 

_It’s okay, little brother_. With a gentleness that is not typical of his nature, Gabriel stripped the destruction from the very fibers of Castiel’s soul until it was shining and sharp. He spoke as he worked, low murmurs in an ancient tongue that plucked at reality until Gabriel was sure the healing would hold.

There was one shadowed spot that, no matter how he tried, Gabriel could not remove. It would have to remain, and by now Gabriel thought he knew enough of his younger brother’s dealings with the Winchesters to guess the origin of the flaw.

 

**iv.**

The soul gave off a pulse that reminded Gabriel of a question, and of course there was only one question that Castiel would want to know the answer to.

 _I’m sorry,_ Gabriel said, _but it doesn’t work like that._

 

**v.**

Oxygen, calcium, hydrogen, nitrogen, phosphorous, carbon. These are the basic ingredients needed to make a human body. 

Gabriel has only ever skimmed through the Bible (and then only to read the dirty parts), but he knows enough to know that Genesis got it wrong. Only by a loooong stretch of the imagination can a man be formed from clay.

He is an archangel, and an honorary god, but he isn’t God. He can’t breathe life into a creature.

But he can guide Castiel’s soul into its brand spanking new, straight-off-the-assembly-line body.

\-----------------------------

**2010 – Sam**

 

**twenty-seven**

On the other side of the television screen, Dean is arguing with his dark-eyed girlfriend. 

Sam doesn’t listen to the particulars of the conversation; he doesn’t have to. He knows Dean so well—even this older, more jaded version of him—that he could probably mouth Dean’s words before his brother spits them out in a string of miserable self-loathing. 

It seems that Dean is not happy with his white-picket-fence life. 

He is restless, nearly crawling out of his skin. 

Sam knows the feeling.

It has been almost twenty-four hours since Gabriel abandoned him in this motel room.

 

**twenty-eight**

Anonymous: whatever you do, don’t leave that room sam.

Anonymous: trust me on this.

sw1967: yeah im gonna take your word on that

sw1967: because you’ve been so trustworthy in the past

sw1967: where the hell are you anyway

sw1967: also where am i

Anonymous: i told you, i’m three months before you, right on the tail end of armageddon.

sw1967: theres not even a phonebook in here what the hell

Anonymous: abilene, kansas

Anonymous: do you need the area code too, or is that good enough, your highness?

Anonymous: see, this is me being helpful.

sw1967: dont strain yourself

Anonymous: hey check it out

Anonymous: i am chatting you up, and also chatting up the you from 2007.

Anonymous: lol

 

**twenty-nine**

Anonymous: do you want to say hi to yourself?

sw1967: jesus

sw1967: no

sw1967: hold on what exactly are you telling me

Anonymous: i sent you a link to the technoviking video

sw1967: ffs

Anonymous: also a treatise on werewolves.

sw1967: oh

sw1967: that was actually helpful

Anonymous: yeah i know.

Anonymous: hang on, i’m gonna ask you if you want to cyber.

sw1967: DO NOT

Anonymous: :D

 

**thirty**

Sometimes, the Dean Show black screens before jumping to a different scene. It seems to be going through Dean’s Greatest Hits. Even though it’s late afternoon for Sam, Dean is driving the back roads late at night, the windows of the Impala rolled down and the radio turned up loud enough that “You Shook Me All Night Long” is almost literal.

What are you running from? Sam wants to ask him because it’s obvious that Dean is running from _something_. 

Eventually, Dean pulls the car over and the music dies. 

Sam is dividing his attention between the television and his conversation with Gabriel, so he almost misses it when Dean starts talking to himself, soft and wrecked in the darkness.

“Miss you, Sammy,” he says. “Miss you so much.”

And: “The apple pie life isn’t all it’s cracked up to be.”

“It doesn’t mean much without you,” which is just about the sappiest thing Sam has ever heard come out of his brother’s mouth, and it breaks his heart a little.

After a few minutes of silence only broken by chirping crickets on Dean’s end, and traffic outside the window of Sam’s motel, Dean’s voice murmurs, “Castiel, who art in heaven—or maybe not, at this point I have no idea, man—anyway, if you’re still alive, I hope you can hear me. Please still be alive.”

Dean’s head lolls back against the leather seat and his gaze shifts to some point beyond the open window.  
“Well, you haven’t showed up yet, and it’s been sixty-one days. I feel like an idiot. Might as well be talking to that tractor over there. But…if you can hear me…I need help.”

 

**thirty-one**

sw1967: you know the tv thing is awkward

Anonymous: what tv thing?

sw1967: your worse half set up this tv to broadcast my brothers life

sw1967: all dean all the time

sw1967: its a gross invasion of privacy

Anonymous: worse half? awww, does that mean i’m the better half?

Anonymous: i’m sure i have my reasons.

Anonymous: when’s the last time you slept, sam?

sw1967: 2007

Anonymous: jesus kid, go to bed

Anonymous: i’m not a slave driver, take a damn break.

sw1967: cant sleep too hungry

Anonymous: sam.

Anonymous: all you had to do was ask.

 

**thirty-two**

A truly heavenly (pun kind of intended) smell fills the room.

Sam gently sets his laptop aside. The room has its own adjacent bathroom and pseudo-kitchen. The latter consists of a microwave set up on the same counter that boasts a sink and a box of tissues (classy), and a tiny chrome table with two plastic yard chairs. The table is now the bearer of an impressive array of breakfast foods—biscuits and jam, sausage, bacon, eggs that aren’t even charred on the bottom. There’s even a little cup of butter and a styrofoam container that Sam’s nose informs him is filled with coffee. 

When Sam stands up, joints creaking in protest, the room tilts a bit. It really has been a while since his last meal. His stomach stopped growling hours ago, but it cranks up again as he approaches the table.

As he eats, he watches the Dean Show black screen yet again, only to skip ahead to yet another scene. Midday. The trunk of the Impala is propped open and Dean is staring down at their portable armory with a considering look in his eyes.

Sam goes cold. _He’s hunting something_. 

 

**thirty-three**

Gabriel’s warning not to leave the room echoes in Sam’s ears, but if he stays here another minute he might lose his mind.

He showered sometime around midnight, thinking the hot water might help him sleep (it hadn’t), but his clothes are the same ones he’s been wearing for the past couple of days. He picks up his jacket from where he’d laid it across the end of the bed, shrugs it on with his eyes still fixed on TV-Dean. 

He doesn’t know where his brother is, but if he can find a working phone…

Goddamnit, the door is locked. It shouldn’t even be possible, because the lock is obviously on the _inside_ of the room, but though Sam strains hard enough to give himself a mild headache he can’t get the door to open.

Frustrated, he kicks at the cheap wood paneling before attempting to pry up the only window in the room. When that doesn’t work, he decides to break the glass out, but it’s like trying to break concrete. 

Sam is a smart guy. It doesn’t take him long to realize that he’s trapped. 

Defeated, he slides down the wall he’s been resting against, staring up at the popcorn ceiling until the world blurs and sleep finally takes him.

 

**2010 – Gabriel**

**(three months ago)**

  
**vi.**

Dust rises off the ground like a fine brown mist. 

The crumbling tombstones are the only witnesses to the archangel stepping out of the air and into the wreckage left behind by two warring brothers.

Gabriel stands for a while with his hands in his pockets, his head cocked to the side as his bright eyes take in the torn grass that is the only sign of where the entrance to the cage had been, and the two dead humans sprawled not far from it.

Well, one dead, and one only _mostly_ dead.

 

**vii.**

He closes his eyes, as if deep in thought, and when he opens them again the sun shining down on the destruction seems even brighter. 

He stands over the place where the cage had opened and wonders if Michael and Lucifer can sense him there. Stranger things have happened.

 

**viii.**

Dean Winchester looks smaller somehow with his life guttering out like a birthday candle.

‘ _I see right through you, you know that? The smart-ass shell, the whole “I-could-give-a-crap” thing? Believe me, it takes one to know one.’_

“Man,” Gabriel sighs, squatting down until he is almost level with Dean’s battered face, “you’ve got balls of steel. And you never learn.”

He taps one finger against the ruins of Dean’s cheek. “I should just let you die. Might be doing you a favor.”

The hunter’s breath stutters, bubbles of blood gathering in the corners of his mouth. 

“All right, you talked me into it,” Gabriel says, and he lays his hand against Dean’s forehead.

Almost as an afterthought, he taps his foot up against the other dead man, snorting when the guy stiffens, groans, and then starts coughing helplessly.

 

**ix.**

Gabriel is high-tailing it out of there when his phone vibrates insistently in his back pocket.

He’s sauntering down the main drag of the Winchesters’ hometown, trying to decide what mess to tackle next, but he pauses to fish his Galaxy S out. 

The screen is flashing with a message from three months in the future, and that means it’s definitely from Gabriel’s favorite Winchester.

Outside an ancient hardware store, Gabriel stops in the shade of an equally ancient oak and no casual observer would guess that he is far, far older than either one. Not with the quiet snicker he can’t quite hold in, or the sideways smile that makes him look even younger than he isn’t.

 

**x.**

_[sw1967 is online (3:34 pm CST)]_

sw1967: did you know that humans get 90% of their daily vitamin d from the sun

Anonymous: do they

Anonymous: you’re just full of fun facts, sam.

sw1967: you cant keep me in here

Anonymous: i totally can

Anonymous: and i did warn you.

sw1967: ill find a way out

sw1967: and when i do you better hope youre not around

Anonymous: good luck with that.

Anonymous: did you enjoy your meal?

Anonymous: oops, got a message from 2007 you

Anonymous: you’re so needy, sam.

sw1967: i hate you

_[sw1967 has signed off (3:41pm CST)]_

 

**xi.**

_[sw1967 is online (5:13am PST)]_

sw1967: how much do you think tickets to disneyland cost

sw1967: also do fbi agents get some kind of discount

 

**2010 – Dean**

 

**(a)**

Dean is knee deep in marsh water when he notices his shadow.

The canopy of cypress overhead is so thick that not much sunlight drips through onto the bracken surface of the swamp. Dean is wearing a pair of boots that cover him from sole to thigh, but he can still feel silt in between his toes because the ground underfoot is mushy and uncertain, liable to bottom out at any given step. 

Carefully, he extracts his boots from where they've sunken in the mud, turns until

he can make out the tiny figure standing in the deep shade of a water oak. He eases

his gun behind his back; it might be one of the lost kids, but then again, it might not be.

 

**(b)**

He opens his mouth to speak, but the shadow beats him to it. "What're you doing

in Mississippi?" The voice is young but gruff. Dean clicks back the safety of his gun.

The kid steps forward, and though his sneakers sink down into the marsh there are no watermarks on his dirty jeans. "I wouldn't do that," the kid warns.

"Jesse," Dean hears himself say. "Jesse Turner."

"Yup." The kid doesn't even crack a smile, just keeps staring at Dean with the creepy, empty expression Dean remembers too well.

"Thought you were in Australia."

"I got bored." Jesse takes another step forward and Dean puts away his gun because it's next to useless against the antichrist. Former antichrist. Whatever. “I thought _you_ were dead.”

 

**(c)**

Dean rubs a hand against the back of his neck, the mosquito bites there burning from sweat and grit. 

“Nah,” he says. “Still kicking.” He can’t quite bring himself to say that it’s _Sam_ who’s dead. So instead: “’M hunting a kelpie.”

Jesse rocks back on his sneakers, curious. “What’s a kelpie?”

“Scottish water-horse,” Dean says. “Drags kids into the deep and eats ‘em.”

Jesse seems to consider this before saying, decisively, “Sounds made-up.”

And suddenly, Dean knows without a doubt that they _are_ made-up, that somehow Jesse’s words are the last thing the last kelpie heard as it blinked out of existence. Even the word “kelpie” is hazy in Dean’s mind. He shudders. Apparently the kid hasn’t lost _all_ of his powers.

A perfectly good hunt down the drain. He curses under his breath.

 

**(d)**

He doesn’t know why he says it.

But he does, and afterwards he gets the feeling that it’s the first _right_ thing he’s said in a long time.

“Wanna grab something to eat?”

And Jesse says, “Okay.”

 

**(e)**

Hanging out with an ex-antichrist has its perks.

Jesse is operating off of a fifth grader’s understanding of money. He is under the impression that most food items cost a dollar, which is awesome for Dean because even though they both order the biggest burger tray on the diner’s menu, a milkshake for Jesse and a piece of cherry pie for Dean, the total comes out somewhere in the vicinity of four dollars.

“I’m trying to be careful,” Jesse states seriously, though the gentle tapping of his (totally dry, and also untied) sneakers against the booth ruins the effect somewhat. 

“Howzzat?” Dean’s mouth is crammed with food. This is probably the weirdest lunch he’s ever had, aside from the pizza he’d eaten in Chicago with Death.

(Sammy would be picking at a salad or some girly food like quiche, he would be shooting Dean a warning look. He would say, “Good for you, Jesse, I knew you could do it.”)

 

**(f)**

Jesse fixes Dean with a cool blue gaze.

“Everything I believe comes true,” he says. “So I’m trying to only believe in real things.”

Dean sets down his burger, starts pulling the sesame seeds off the bun. He’s not really hungry anymore. The phantom Sam he was imagining sitting across from him, hovering over Jesse with typical fascination and sympathy, spontaneously combusts into a vague sense of shame.

“Yeah, well.” Dean coughs to cover his discomfort.

“I’ve been thinking though.” Jesse looks around at the other diners, the waitresses, back at his milkshake. Anywhere but at Dean. “’Cause sometimes it’s kind of hard to tell.”

Dean raises an eyebrow.

Jesse actually flushes. “I mean, _you_ know a lot about what’s real and what’s fake, right?”

 _Oh for fuck’s sake_. “No,” Dean says aloud. “Just…no.”

 

**(g)**

How do you construct a valid argument against someone who, until very recently, still believed in the Tooth Fairy?

The answer is: you don’t.

Especially not when that someone is able to bend reality to his will.

And is turning on the most pathetic set of puppy-dog eyes you’ve ever seen, even counting Sammy’s.

“Oh Jesus fucking Christ, _fine_ , whatever. You realize every adult we come across is going to know _immediately_ that I’m not your dad and report me as a pedophile, right?”

“No, they won’t,” Jesse says.

And they don’t.

 

**(h)**

Dean’s ground rules, as stated to the former-antichrist, are:

No messing up his car.

No messing _with_ his car.

Not even the radio, because the driver chooses the music and shotgun shuts his cakehole.

No intentionally remaking reality, at least not in any drastic way.

(Jesse points out that sometimes he can’t help it, which is where the “intentionally” clause comes in; and Dean appreciates cheap food, which is where the “drastic” clause comes in.)

After two days on the road together, Jesse finds out that the last and most important rule is: Don’t mention Sam Winchester.

 

**(i)**

Riding with Jesse is almost like riding alone, but just a little bit better.

He never thinks that he needs a bath, so he never needs one, which is convenient when Dean wants nothing more than to check-in some non-descript motel off the interstate just to get at a hot shower. 

He doesn’t understand the concept of paying for minutes, and even though Jesse is constantly using Dean’s phone to verify stuff on Wikipedia (the kid is obsessed with Wikipedia), Dean’s phone bill has never been lower.

He doesn’t get weirded out when Dean has to pull over because he can’t catch his breath, because he’s covered in a sheen of sour sweat and he can’t…fucking…breathe. Dean will grip the steering wheel tight enough that his nails dig into his palms before stumbling out of the car, wheezing like a seventy-year-old chain-smoker. Sometimes he just sits down right there on the dusty shoulder, braces himself until the air comes whistling back into his lungs as the heavy weight on his chest lifts. 

Sometimes he feels tears tracking down his face, but Jesse never says anything, just waits until it passes.

The kid will be bent over an article and when Dean is back behind the wheel he’ll say something like, “Human moms don’t lay eggs,” and Dean will say, “Nope, not going there.”

 

**(j)**

Dean doesn’t concern himself too much with whatever is going on in Heaven.

For all he knows it might be business as usual. No one’s bothered him since Lucifer and Michael were sealed away, along with…along with…

Anyway. 

Not even Cas has stuck around.

Though Cas could be dead.

That’s the worst part, the not knowing. Or maybe the worst part is thinking that Cas could actually be dead—for good this time. 

Or it could be the thought that Cas _isn’t_ dead, but that he just doesn’t give a shit anymore.

\------------------------------------

**2010 – Sam**

 

**thirty-four**

Sam wakes up with a crick in his neck and an archangel sitting beside him on the linoleum entryway, lazily popping Skittles into Sam’s open mouth.

Sam leans over to spit them out. “I thought you wanted me alive,” he says angrily. “I could’ve choked to death!”

Gabriel gives him an innocent look. “I’d bring you back,” he says placidly.

“Where’ve you been?” Sam was going for demanding, but he can’t hide the lilt of curiosity in his voice.

“Roaming to and fro across the land.” Gabriel grins. “Among other things. Have you been enjoying yourself, Sam?”

“I…” Sam frowns. “Are you _checking in_ on me?”

“Yup. You should be flattered beyond all understanding. I’m a very busy man-shaped being of celestial intent,” Gabriel says in a confiding tone. 

 

**thirty-five**

“Busy doing _what_?”

Gabriel spreads his hands dramatically. He’s wearing a ridiculous lime-green shirt with ANGEL emblazoned across it over a stylized sacred heart. When he sees Sam eyeing it, he says, “I’m a big fan of irony.”

“Yeah, I know.”

“And you would not even believe what I’ve been getting up to. So I’m not going to tell you.”

Sam rocks his head back up against the plaster behind him, rolling his eyes. “You’re so incredibly frustrating. Look, I want to see Dean.” When Gabriel gestures at the television, Sam amends, “No, I mean _in person_.”

Gabriel’s eyes are sharp. “Are you lonely, Sam?”

 

**thirty-six**

There’s something vaguely dangerous in the archangel’s voice, but Sam can’t quite identify what it is. Not threatening exactly. Just…unsettling.

So he crosses his arms and glowers, because he’s suddenly sure that no matter how he answers that, something unpleasant will happen.

Gabriel’s sigh is heavy. “Or maybe just bored, huh?” He pauses. “How’s your German?”

Sam blinks. “What?”

With a smirk, Gabriel snaps his fingers.

 

**thirty-seven**

Sam’s German isn’t very good.

He can manage a faint “guten tag” to the maître d’ at the restaurant Gabriel has to alternately ply and threaten to get him into, but that’s about it. Sam’s comfortable plaid layers and work jeans have decided that they’re going to be a suit today (and the best suit he’s ever worn; perfectly tailored, though he tries not to read too much into that). Gabriel is still in his ANGEL shirt, but no one calls him on it, or even seems to notice.

“Try the asdfkdsfaj;lk,” Sam thinks Gabriel says.

“Yeah, I have no idea what just came out of your mouth.” There’s no menu in sight. How is there not a menu? Everything else imaginable is on the table: three types of glasses, large plates, small plates, a crap load of silverware, napkins folded in origami-like shapes. Even fucking flowers. 

Gabriel leans forward, his eyes flashing gold in the low light. “There _are_ no menus here, Sam, because everyone already knows what they want.”

 

**thirty-eight**

How did it get to the point where Sam is hanging out with a guy powerful enough to zap them all the way to Germany because he was in the mood for authentic black forest cake and Lowenbrau?

“I’m almost certain you’re supposed to drink wine in places like this,” Sam says in between bites of the dumplings he’d ended up ordering as a sort of happy accident. “I don’t even think they sell beer.”

Gabriel waves the words away with a broad gesture. “Beer, wine, what’s the real difference?”

“Uh, different brewing processes, different materials…”

“Doesn’t matter, it’s all delicious.”

“I can’t believe you ate the whole cake.”

“I can’t believe you’ve only eaten two of those things,” Gabriel says mockingly, and he takes the opportunity to snatch up one of Sam’s dumplings.

“What’re you talking about, I’ve eaten a whole—“

“You’re a growing boy, Sam, and the meal’s on me.” Gabriel actually winks. “Enjoy it.”

And Sam gets that queasy, uneasy feeling in his gut again, like there’s some current running beneath their conversation that he doesn’t know if he wants to dip his feet in or not. 

 

**thirty-nine**

As if to prove a point, Gabriel orders himself another beer, and one for Sam, too. It’s crisp and light on Sam’s tongue, hearty in a way that he isn’t used to, and before he knows it he’s on his fifth and Gabriel’s on his sixth and the archangel gives Sam an amused glance when Sam stumbles a bit on their way out of the restaurant.

The streets outside are cobblestone and even though it’s evening in Germany everything is lit up—the windows of the pale stone buildings standing like sentinels on either side of them, the iron streetlamps, the cars that are going the wrong way. The only dark places are among the uppermost branches of the blooming trees. _More flowers_ , Sam thinks wryly. 

 

**forty**

“There was a Roman fort around here somewhere,” Gabriel slurs. 

Sam is quiet, sipping directly from the bottle of bourbon Gabriel had pulled out of the ether some time ago. He is well and truly drunk now, but he thinks Gabriel is too, so that’s okay. 

“’S prob’ly gone, though. Visited it once. Long time ago.”

“That is _awesome_ ,” Sam says with feeling. It seems that he is a very long way off the ground. “You’re awesome.”

“The Romans were dicks.”

“D’you know—“ Sam steps off a curve and Gabriel grabs his arm to pull him out of the street. The archangel’s grip is _insane_. “—they invented aqueducts. ‘N concrete.”

“Leap year.”

“Yeah, that too.”

Something wet slithers against Sam’s forehead. He rubs at it, and Gabriel says, “’S raining. ‘M too drunk for the Koenig anyway.”

 

**forty-one**

Sam is about to agree, but they’re already back in the motel room before he can convince his tongue to work. 

“Time’s almost up,” Gabriel sighs, claiming the bourbon from Sam and knocking the bottle back with enthusiasm. 

Sam tries to focus on pulling off his shoes, which have reverted from dress shoes back to his usual practical boots. He keeps getting distracted by the laugh lines framing Gabriel’s mouth, which appear and disappear like the ghost of a smile. Probably there’s something wrong with him. 

Gabriel gives him a cool once-over and says, “Oh, you’re _that_ kind of drunk, Sam.”

The way Gabriel slurs over the S in Sam’s name makes the hairs on the back of his neck stand on end. 

“Well,” Sam says slowly, sinking onto the edge of the bed, green eyes catching gold ones and hanging on meaningfully, “guilty as charged, I guess.”

Gabriel makes a surprised sound in his throat and between one breath and the next, he’s leaning over Sam, one hand coming up as if to touch him. He pulls back quickly and laughs. “You _are_ a temptation, Sam Winchester.” The archangel pulls a face and shakes himself. “Nearly too great to resist.”

And then he’s gone, and Sam is so sensitized that he thinks he can feel the air rushing in to fill the space Gabriel had occupied.

 

**forty-two**

The next half-hour is occupied by a crisis of conscience. Sam calls himself an idiot roughly fifty times, in every way he can think of, and, since Gabriel left the bourbon, determinedly drinks himself into a stupor so deep that he ends up passing out on the bathroom floor.

 

**???? - Adam**

 

**SCENE 1**

FADE IN:

INT. LUCIFER’S CAGE – UNKNOWN TIME

The CAGE is pitch-black, though occasionally it flickers with haunting, fluorescent lights. It’s not a pleasant place by any stretch of the imagination. The FLOOR is slick with an UNKNOWN SUBSTANCE and the shadows are never still.

LUCIFER and MICHAEL are in the middle of a conflict. Both are in their true forms, but the blinding light that would normally emanate off of them is limited by the physics that rule the CAGE.

CUT TO ADAM, crouched down on the muck-covered FLOOR. He’s a wreck. His hair is matted to his head and his entire body, naked and thin, is streaked with some substance that might be blood or might be something worse. 

A MYSTERIOUS VOICE:

Do you see it, boy?

ADAM: (huddling in on himself)

No. Not yet.

A MYSTERIOUS VOICE: (irritated)

Keep looking.

ADAM, when he isn’t comatose with his own pain or crying helplessly, crawls along the FLOOR, keeping his body as low as he can manage. The passage of time is erratic, fluid. He has no idea how long he has been doing this.

As he works, he keeps up a running commentary.

ADAM: 

This…this is the life we chose. The life we lead.

There is an EXPLOSION as the BROTHERS collide together. ADAM is thrown against the BOUNDARY of the CAGE. His skin sizzles, but he barely seems to notice.

ADAM: (whispering)

And there is only one guarantee. None of us will see Heaven.

A MYSTERIOUS VOICE:

Adam, are you okay?

ADAM:

No, no, no, no.

LUCIFER: (sadly)

You can’t shield your monkey forever. 

MICHAEL draws himself up. He is a terrifying creature, wreathed in light that, even in the CAGE, conceals the full extent of his glory. On the rare occasions when ADAM looks at him, he sees something nearly three times the height of a man, and with what looks like several different faces all drawn up in identical scowls. MICHAEL has three pairs of wings, all of them blazing with righteous fire. Like LUCIFER, he is weaponless, but that doesn’t stop the BROTHERS from tearing each other apart.

MICHAEL: 

Unlike you, brother, I take care of my toys. 

LUCIFER: (laughing gently)

Look at it wiggling around like an insect. You chose well, Michael.

MICHAEL: (preparing to lunge again)

You’re envious, as ever you were.

LUCIFER shrugs with a carelessness that is clearly manufactured. He is almost identical to MICHAEL except for his voice, which is like sugar soaked in honey or a warm spring afternoon. 

ADAM: (muttering)

Same fight, different day.

ADAM slinks closer to the BOUNDARY. 

ADAM: 

No surprises here.

He starts laughing, a hysterical edge to his voice.

ADAM: (singing)

They don’t speak for us, I’ll take a quiet life, a handshake of carbon monoxide…

A MYSTERIOUS VOICE:

What are you trying to say?

ADAM:

Nothing. I don’t have any words of my own.

ADAM catches his hand on something that makes him cry out. He pants as he runs his fingers over a portion of the BOUNDARY seemingly indistinguishable to every other portion. His fingers are scalded red from the heat, and then black, but he doesn’t stop.

A MYSTERIOUS VOICE: (subdued)

You’ve found it. After all this time. My God.

ADAM: 

There’s no such thing.

The ARCHANGELS continue fighting as ADAM tears at the BOUNDARY. Presently, something that looks like thin sheets of black paper begins to roll back over his mauled hands. 

The first flash of gray light flickers in LUCIFER’S black eyes.

LUCIFER: (surprised, in mid-battle)

Your insect—

But MICHAEL is too fast for his BROTHER. He’s known as the SWORD OF HEAVEN for a reason; he slices through the air like a streak of flame towards the BOUNDARY, and towards ADAM.

ADAM coughs as his lungs fill with fire.

A MYSTERIOUS VOICE:

Do not be afraid.

They don’t pass through the BOUNDARY—they shatter through it.

*Adam is quoting from Road to Perdition and Radiohead’s No Surprises. 

 

**2010 – Adam**

 

**SCENE 2**

EXT. STULL CEMETERY - DAWN

ADAM’s body is unrecognizable from the boy who was trapped in the CAGE so long ago. He is bruised purple and black where he is not burned red, or bleeding. He is unconscious in MICHAEL’S arms and the light coming off of the ARCHANGEL shows ADAM’S injuries in excruciating detail.

MICHAEL drops ADAM’S body on the ground as soon as they emerge from the CAGE. 

The ARCHANGEL is blazing so brightly that he rivals the rising sun. His wings drip what looks like MOLTEN LAVA onto ADAM, leaving marks like shiny copper pennies on the human’s skin. Neither of them seems to be aware of it.

MICHAEL: (under his breath)

He cannot follow.

Suddenly, MICHAEL extends his arm and a FLAMING SWORD manifests in his outstretched hand. He swings it around and then straight down into the soil of the cemetery—of the now-fractured ENTRANCE to the CAGE. 

MICHAEL:

(murmuring in a foreign tongue)

The grass around the sinking SWORD turns black. Early morning sunlight dyes the scene in shades of red. 

MICHAEL releases the hilt of the SWORD as it finally vanishes into the ground, presumably sealing the CAGE once more.

MICHAEL: (tiredly)

It is done.

The light that wreathes MICHAEL is fading and he seems smaller than he was in the CAGE. It is obvious that he has used up most of his power during the escape. 

He stands over ADAM for a long while, taking in the boy’s broken body. 

MICHAEL:

(sighs)

 

**2010 – Dean**

 

**(k)**

“You’ve gotta put more than that,” Dean says with more irritation than he really feels. “Should be about two, three inches wide. Use your index finger to measure.”

Jesse nods and thickens the salt line he’s struggling to pour to Dean’s satisfaction. 

They’re just within the South Dakota state line, so far out in the boonies that Dean swears he saw a few outhouses on the way through. 

Dean had a feeling this was going to be a simple salt and burn case, which is why he is allowing Jesse to play Robin to Dean’s Batman. There’s only so much the boy can get wrong. 

That, and it’s not far out of the way of Dean’s ultimate destination.

 

**(l)**

A few days later, Dean is navigating the Impala through the maze that is Bobby’s yard. Jesse is heavy-eyed in the passenger seat but the kid perks up (as much as he ever perks up, anyway) at the sight of all the cars in varying states of repair.

“The hell--?” Is the first thing Bobby says to him.

And then, “Didn’t take you for the type,” resignedly, eyeing Jesse with distrust.

“I was in the area, thought I’d stop by for a drink,” Dean lies. He fully intends to crash for a while. “Jesse here’s just tagging along.”

 

**(m)**

If there is one thing in the world that Dean can be sure of, it is that Bobby, and by extension Bobby’s house, will never change. As Dean slumps down at what passes for a kitchen table despite being covered in books and cooking utensils and hunting supplies, relief settles over him like a wordless pardon.

He has no idea where Jesse gets off to, but after a few minutes Bobby slides a beer in front of him and Dean pops the cap off, drinks until he’s breathless.

“Thanks,” he mutters.

Bobby leans up against the counter. “How’re you holding up?”

Dean opens his mouth to reply, and then closes it. He struggles before finally admitting, “I’m not.”

 

**(n)**

Bobby looks uncomfortable. “Wanna talk about it?”

A humorless laugh escapes Dean. His eyes feel gritty, too many nights spent passed out in motel beds or across the front seat of his car. The shutters covering the kitchen window are faded with age, worn around the edges. Dean feels that he can relate. “When has talking about it ever changed anything?” He runs a hand over his chin, which is in need of a shave. “You were dead, Bobby. _I_ was as good as. I can’t stop thinking about it. All of it. Sammy’s in _hell_ , and there’s not a goddamn thing I can do about it. And you wanna know what’s really fucked up?”

Dean drags his finger through the ring left by the beer bottle on the scratched varnish of the table. 

“You saw it, didn’t you, Bobby?”

“Yeah,” Bobby says curtly. 

“The thing that brought you back and fixed me up—that light…it was an angel, I know it was. And let’s be honest here, it was probably Cas that did it.” Dean swallows with some difficulty, surprised by the lump in his throat. “So why isn’t he here now? What’s with the vanishing act?” The last swig of beer tastes even more bitter than usual. “My brother’s in hell and my bastard angel can’t even return a phone call.”

 

**(o)**

No, talking about it doesn’t help. There’s only one sure way to deal with the anger and resentment (and hurt, though Dean doesn’t like to admit to _that_ ) sitting on a constant low flame in Dean’s gut.

“I’ve got a lead out in Oklahoma,” Bobby says, as if reading Dean’s mind. Really they just operate on the same wavelength—if it hurts, bury it, and bury it deep. “Reports of some critter with three heads.”

Dean can’t resist. “’S not so impressive.” Cue rakish grin. “I’ve got two.”

“Har har,” Bobby intones, unamused. “Apparently, it’s the size of a Great Dane and, given that the heads are a lion, a goat, and a snake, I’d say we’re looking at a chimera sighting.”

Dean makes a face. “Will a bullet take it out, or are we talking a special order here? Silver bullets, a stake made from hemlock and dipped in essence of—“

“Decapitation,” Bobby interrupts. 

“Oh.” Dean smiles for the first time in days. “That works.” 

 

**(p)**

It turns out that chimeras are a bitch to kill.

In the end, Dean manages two of the heads on his own, and Jesse works some of his hoodoo on the last one. Where Dean limited himself to one clean slice through each neck (and God did he look cool as hell doing it, machetes are his _favorite_ ), Jesse gets a little too enthusiastic. When the chimera’s goat head explodes, it showers the two of them with blood and bits of skin and brain tissue like wet confetti.

 

**(q)**

Jesse is quiet over their post-hunt meal. At first Dean suspects that the kid is just tired from the fight and from the long drive from South Dakota, but after spending the better part of an hour building a fort with his french fries, Jesse looks up and says, “Maybe I could bring him back.”

Dean is distracted by the low-cut shirt across the way. Honestly, chasing skirt isn’t as fun as it used to be. It seems like too much work for too little return. Maybe he’s just getting old. 

“Who?”

Jesse lowers his eyes, looking more uncertain than Dean has ever seen him. His dark hair is getting too long, so thick that now it hides his expression. “Your brother.”

 

**(r)**

And Dean is so, so tempted.

His pulse thrums loudly in his ears and he can’t seem to catch his breath.

He pushes away from the table, throws down a ten dollar bill and is half-way across the parking lot before Jesse catches up.

“I—didn’t—mean—“ The words are broken up by the slap of the kid’s sneakers on the asphalt. 

Dean whirls around. “Of course you didn’t,” he spits out. 

And Jesse is half-demon, but he’s half-human, too. His face falls with disappointment. “I just wanna help,” he mutters, the threat of tears strong in his voice.

“Yeah, well, you _can’t_.” 

Deep breath. In, out. 

“You can’t,” Dean repeats more calmly. He kicks at an empty can that is rolling by, watches it collide with the wheel of an old Buick. From a distance, he thinks that he and Jesse probably look like a boy and his old man going at it, instead of what they really are: the most spectacular failure of a Chosen One ever and his self-designated sidekick who, while not the son of Satan, could be considered at least a distant cousin. “We’ve been working together for what, a few weeks now, right? I’ve seen what you can do. And I know…I know he wouldn’t be the same, if you tried to bring him back. He wouldn’t really be Sam.”

Jesse shakes his head reluctantly. 

“Promise me you won’t try.”

Jesse stands straight-backed and oddly stern for someone so young, in sharp contrast to the cheerful Saturday-afternoon families filtering in and out of the diner behind him. 

“I promise,” he says, and as always his words make it law.

 

**(s)**

They find Castiel at a mining museum in West Mineral, Kansas, standing in the shadow of a one-hundred and sixty foot tall electric shovel. It was Jesse’s idea to visit the place, and it was on the way back up to South Dakota so Dean wasn’t going to fight it too much.

“It’s a tourist trap,” he’d warned.

Jesse said, “Wikipedia says Big Brutus weighs eleven _million_ pounds, Dean. It’s the largest electric shovel in the world.”

“Yeah, fascinating, thanks for that.”

And Dean tuned out, cranked up his Zeppelin tape and tried not to think about how close they were, relatively, to Lawrence.

Now his legs almost give out, he’s _that_ shattered to find that, all this time, his lost angel was in _Kansas_ of all places.

 

**(t)**

Castiel is staring up at Big Brutus with a kind of wary curiosity. He is smaller than Dean remembers, dressed in rumpled slacks the color of old mustard and a stained Blue Oyster Cult t-shirt. Dean can make out the crease in his brow even from twenty feet away and through a sparse crowd.

It’s hard to decide whether to grab the angel and never let go, or punch him right in his stupid face.

Dean being Dean, his fist is flying and it’s only afterwards, when Castiel is crumpling like a newspaper, that he notices how easy it was. The last time Dean hit Castiel his hand was sore for a week, the bones creaking together with every flex of his fingers. 

But his mouth is dropping words he can’t call back, “You son of a bitch,” and “I thought you were my _friend_.” (He will never, ever cop to saying, “Goddamnit Cas, Heaven and Hell couldn’t even break us, but you sure as shit did and I _hate_ you,” because he isn’t a fourteen-year old girl, but the fact is that he did say it.)

Something’s wrong with the picture, though. 

Cas is silent through the whole torrent of Dean’s anger, only climbing to his feet and watching with the same solemnity that Dean remembers so well. Dean’s eyes are drawn to Cas’s cheek, which is already swelling up. The skin is broken where Dean’s knuckles crashed against his cheekbone. His nose is bleeding.

Dean falls quiet. 

Jesse is hanging back, digging his shoes in the dirt and clearly confused by the entire exchange. Cas doesn’t even glance at the kid who once used the powers of hell to turn him into an action figure. His dark eyes are boring into Dean’s like he can still see all the best and worst parts of him laid out in a neat row.

But Dean is suddenly sure that Cas can’t actually see inside of him anymore.

“I didn’t betray you, Dean,” Cas says.

At the same time, Dean says, “You’re human.”

 

**2010 – Sam**

 

**forty-three**

_[sw1967 is online (9:02am CST)]_

Anonymous: what are you getting into this morning, kid?

Anonymous: hellooooo

Anonymous: late night, huh?

_[sw1967 has signed off (9:10am CST)]_

Anonymous: sam?

\----------------------------------------------

**forty-four**

Sam turns the knob in the shower until the water is scalding hot. The steam makes him want to crawl back into bed. His head is pounding. Hangovers are not his favorite thing ever. 

He kind of considers it penance for being such an idiot. God, what was he thinking? As he lets the water work out the kinks in his muscles, he realizes that there is really only one logical explanation. He has a fetish. Power turns him on. Also, non-humanness. Is there a word for that? 

“You like it when I boss you around,” Jess told him forever ago, and even then he’d sensed the truth of it.

By the time he’s used the last of the motel-grade shampoo (rose-scented, yuck), Sam is satisfied that he has psycho-analyzed himself into a more sane mind-frame. There’s nothing wrong with liking a certain power dynamic, it doesn’t mean anything except that probably Sam didn’t get enough hugs as a child. It definitely doesn’t threaten his masculinity in any way, because he isn’t his brother. Case closed. 

 

**forty-five**

If Dean could hear Sam’s thoughts, he would never let him live it down.

The memories Gabriel dream-fed him rise up in Sam’s mind. They’re hazy, like scenes from another person’s life and he guesses that’s technically true. He’s not that Sam, not really. He’s never died, or been a demon blood junkie, or gone to hell. He’s never seen Dean die. Something like that would most likely break him. So he can empathize, but he doesn’t really understand. 

If they’re different people, and only the basic blueprint is the same, will Dean ever really accept him as he is? 

This Dean will obviously be different from the Dean that Sam is familiar with. It’s a sobering thought. 

Not that he has much choice. The alternative was dying in that abandoned town by Ava’s hand. His bridges are all burned and at the end of the day, he’s here, and the other Sam isn’t. 

 

**forty-six**

There’s a whole pot of coffee on the table when Sam walks out of the bathroom, toweling his hair, along with a pitcher of ice water and what looks like an omelet topped with three neat slices of bacon.

On the end of the bed is a change of clothes which Sam is sure was not there when he woke up. When he unfolds them, a bottle of Aspirin clatters to the floor.

 _Either Gabriel’s had a hangover before_ , he thinks wryly, _or he’s the_ good _kind of angel._

Probably the former, Sam decides, when he sees that it’s a tomato omelet. 

When he finally gets up the nerve to sign in to his instant messenger again, he types: did you know that tomatoes have an enzyme that counteracts hangovers

And past-Gabriel types back: are you kidding my dad created tomatoes specifically for hangovers.

 

**forty-seven**

Anonymous: can’t believe you didn’t know that, college guy.

Anonymous: and what was up with you earlier?

sw1967: i dont know 

sw1967: ok that was a lie

sw1967: can i ask you something

Anonymous: oh man, you just did.

Anonymous: i’ll throw in another one for free

Anonymous: only because i like you.

sw1967: i might have gotten really drunk last night

sw1967: and come on to you

sw1967: the you in my time

sw1967: i mean i mightve said some stuff that wasnt 100 percent platonic

sw1967: not that i think of you that way

sw1967: i hit on everyone when im drinking

sw1967: im not gay

sw1967: so do you think youre mad

sw1967: its weird right

sw1967: should i apologize

Anonymous: wow.

 

**forty-eight**

Anonymous: XD

Anonymous: i just want you to know that i’m dying with laughter.

sw1967: gabriel

sw1967: im serious

Anonymous: well, i just have two things to say to you, sam.

Anonymous: are you paying attention?

sw1967: yes damnit

Anonymous: you are probably not gay.

sw1967: um thanks??

Anonymous: you realize i’m not a man in the strictest sense of the word.

Anonymous: because angels don’t have genders the way you think of them (surprise!)

Anonymous: and the second thing is, i probably don’t mind that you were flirting with me.

Anonymous: so stay gold, ponyboy.

Anonymous: :)

sw1967: …

sw1967: i dont even know what to say to that

 

**forty-nine**

The television has been paused on a still of the back of Dean’s head for God knows how long. 

It’s an old TV, probably circa 1985, with a tuning knob and volume control tacked on its front. Though Sam searches, he can’t find a “play” button, and when he fiddles with the controls nothing happens. After a few minutes, he steps away, exasperated, and of course it’s then that the picture starts moving.

Dean is in a swampy forest, on the hunt for a kelpie. He’s armed with a handgun and the kind of determined machismo that Sam used to tease him about regularly. 

And he’s talking to the antichrist.

 

**fifty**

_What is he_ doing _?_ Sam thinks with growing alarm as the scene shifts to a retro-themed diner. Dean and Jesse Turner (the name floats up in Sam’s mind unbidden) are ordering food from a waitress in a poodle-skirt, arguing with each other over prices until Dean actually looks at the menu and gives up, his eyebrows rising incredulously.

This is insane. The walls of the motel room feel even closer than usual. And Sam is sure that if he doesn’t get out of here _now_ , Dean is going to get himself killed.

 

**fifty-one**

The room is exactly nine steps across and seven steps down. Sam knows this because he wears a line into the carpet pacing back and forth, trying to figure out what to _do_. 

It’s no use talking to Gabriel. Even if they are…whatever they are now—Sam isn’t sure if he should deem it “friends”, or “associates”, or what…even so, Gabriel clearly has his own agenda.

Sam stops in front of the only window, idly twisting the wand hanging from the mini-blinds and watching the strips of light appear and disappear. The window itself is glazed, hard to see past it to the parking lot.

He’s been here for two days.

And housekeeping hasn’t tried to come in to clean the room, not even once.

 _Some kind of redirection spell_ , Sam thinks, chewing on his thumbnail. _Or whatever the angelic equivalent of that is._

Could the housekeepers hear him if he called out or banged on the door?

It would make sense for Gabriel to soundproof the room, but he must have been distracted, or in a hurry, because Sam knows for a fact that he’s heard outside traffic several times during his internment. 

So Sam pulls a chair up to the window, kicks back and sips at his coffee. He keeps one eye on TV-Dean and one eye on the window, and sometime around noon he grins when he finally sees a shadow pass by outside.

 

**1983 – Gabriel**

 

**xii.**

Sam is born on a Monday.

It’s early May. The air is fragrant with growing things.

Mary Winchester accepts the offer of an epidural gratefully, so the sterile hospital room is cool and soundless and peaceful, not entirely unlike Heaven was in the old days. Gabriel shifts impatiently, an invisible specter leaning over the doctor’s shoulder where the man stands in between Mary’s legs. Sam’s father is just as fidgety as the archangel. John’s anxiety makes him quiet; he holds Mary’s hand and stares at her screwed-up face, the beads of sweat on her forehead and her neck, the pained slits of her eyes.

 

**xiii.**

Later, Gabriel stands over the plastic bassinet that holds the boy who is destined to die in a ghost town owned by one of Hell’s best, at the hand of a girl driven mad with death.

Sam’s eyes are that peculiar, misty blue that most babies have. Gabriel has seen them transition to hazel-green so many times he knows when the exact day that the last of the blue fades will be. 

The baby can’t see him, or hear him. But Gabriel murmurs all the same, “You’re a good-looking kid.”

Gurgle, gurgle, burp, says baby Sam.

“I can tell you,” Gabriel adds, “that your conversational skills get a little better over time.”

 

**xiv.**

Maintaining simultaneous conversations with Sam all down his timeline would be exhausting for just about anyone _except_ for Gabriel.

He enjoys passing tips to the Sam in 2006 while teasing the Sam locked up in a motel room in 2010 (for his own safety, of course, though it _is_ funny to see him so irritated). Late-2007 Sam is fun, too, because he’s learned not to take any of Gabriel’s crap and if Gabriel sends him very stealthy pornography, 2007 Sam will send him something even worse back.

Of course, the earlier Sams think he’s a troll, but that’s okay. It’s more fun that way. No accountability. Gabriel can get on board with that.

 

**xv.**

All the while, he’s jumping through time. Here is Mary falling to Azazel, here is John diving headfirst into his own personal living hell. 

Here is Sam’s first word, his first step, the first time his heart breaks. A frustrated eight-year-old Dean strikes out at four-year-old Sam, and though Dean nearly beats himself into the ground with his guilt, the damage is done. Sam is whiny, Sam is bored, but Sam worships his elder brother and his sorrow is profound. Gabriel thinks Sam probably doesn’t even consciously remember this moment. But it becomes a theme; the very darkest moments of his life all revolve around Dean.

 

**2007 – Gabriel**

 

**xvi.**

 

Fast-forward to early 2007. Sam's dreamscape is oddly bland, possibly because the world hasn't decided to take a shit on him yet. Sam would probably beg to differ, but Gabriel has seen just how bad it can get.

This is nothing.

Sam's happy place is his college dorm room. Gabriel becomes so familiar with that room that if he wasn't such a crappy artist (Sosus of Pergamon had once told Gabriel that it wasn't his technique, but his taste that was so terrible—whatever, screw that guy) he could probably draw it from memory. 

Over the next year of Sam's life, Gabriel carefully plants memories drawn from another, darker lifetime into the soil of Sam's imagination. The archangel makes sure that Sam can't actually access the memories yet; the timing isn't quite right. 

But it will be soon.

 

**xvii.**

The girl with the moon-shaped face is about to summon backup, so Gabriel snaps his fingers and brings time to a sudden halt.

It occurs to him that this will be the first time _this_ Sam has ever met him as Gabriel. Gabriel's self in this timeline still has his day job as Loki, god of mischief, though the Winchester brothers know him as the Trickster.

In fact, 2007 Sam has never even seen an angel before.

Better make it memorable.

He hasn't had this much fun since Nazareth.

 

**xviii.**

“Fear not,” Gabriel roars enthusiastically.

“Oh _fuck_ ,” says Sam.

 

**2010 – Adam**

 

**SCENE 3**

Nubby blue carpet beneath his cheek. He shivers, skin pebbling with cold. No clothes, and no clue where he is.

_How am I even alive?_

Adam pushes himself up off the floor he's lying on, taking in his surroundings. He thinks he's in a house, but there's no furniture anywhere to be seen. The walls aren't even painted, just gray plaster. The bare window lets in a square of light that illuminates the lower half of Adam's body, which is--

Unmarked. His skin is pale but unbroken; even the long scar that has been on his calf since a fourth grade bicycle accident is gone. 

Even more surprisingly, he isn't crazy. At least, he doesn't feel crazy. 

So how do you go to hell and come out the other side in better shape than you went in?

As Adam finds out soon enough, you do it by having an archangel burrowed deep in your soul.

 

**SCENE 4**

It's an unfinished modular home in an empty housing development. The yard is just dirt with patches of weeds, and the other houses lining the street are in the same state: incomplete. If they were a homework assignment, they'd get a failing grade.

And yet Adam knows exactly where he is. 

It's like he has a GPS in his head and one word flashes in his mind as he looks around, clothed in only a drop-cloth he'd found in the kitchen of the house he'd woken up in.

Kansas.

He's in fucking Kansas.

 

**SCENE 5**

Pre-hell Adam Milligan was a model citizen. He didn't have a criminal record, he was a straight A student, he was punctual and courteous. He'd never even smoked pot.

It's eerie how easily he breaks into the first house he sees that looks inhabited. The lack of cars in the driveway indicates that whoever lives there is at work or school. The silence inside is only broken by the hum of the overhead fans and the refrigerator. He never thought he'd miss those sounds, but now that he's been exposed to them, he realizes that he has. God, how he's missed them.

He digs through the bureau in the master bedroom until he finds a shirt and a pair of pants that are only a little too big. Crams the drop-cloth in the trash bin outside. 

He walks up the road with no real destination in mind.

There's no point in going home. It was in hell that he finally realized his mother is dead. It had been devastating then, but now the thought of it barely touches him.

He feels invincible.

Numb all the way to his bones.

 

**SCENE 6**

Something is following him.

Adam can't see it, but he knows it with more certainty than he knows his own name.

The road stretches on, branches out. The main drag of Lawrence is several miles away. He isn't sure if he actually wants to go to Lawrence, but that's where his feet are taking him.

“Okay,” he sighs. A green station wagon thunders by, making a cloud of dust rise. Adam turns around once it’s past, but the road is otherwise deserted.

“I know you’re there,” he says.

‘ _Not exactly_ ,’ is the tired reply.

 

**SCENE 7**

By midday, Adam is coming to terms with the situation.

Time was fractured in the Cage; a little less than three months have passed on earth, but Adam was a pawn in Michael and Lucifer’s battle royale for some two decades. During that time, he was torn in every way a person can be torn. His body was preserved (somewhat, anyway), but his soul was all but destroyed. He was, Michael assures him, already insane before Michael ever decided to break them out.

But Michael _did_ decide to break out, and he used Adam to find the weakness while he himself kept his brother distracted. 

Because while God might have created the Cage, Michael had been around since the beginning. He’d watched its conception and construction, had even been the one to imprison Lucifer within it the first time around.

The only one who knew the Cage better than Lucifer was Michael.

 

**SCENE 8**

Adam is tired. He veers off the road-to-Lawrence, passes old farmhouses and grain silos, on into the open fields of the countryside. It’s so _scenic_ , all yellow wheat and bright green soybean plants, neat squares of profit. It makes Adam sick. But there’s no one around to see him and he lies right on the ground, staring up at the overcast sky. It will probably rain. The ground smells wet.

“Why are you inside of me?” Adam scowls. “Are you gonna use me as your vessel?” Because if Michael thinks that, he’s dead wrong. Adam will slit his own wrists before he lets a goddamn angel use him again.

‘ _I made a promise,’_ Michael says seriously. _‘Do you remember it?’_

“Yeah,” says Adam, “to protect me, and let me just congratulate you on a job well done. Come on, man. We both know I was the consolation prize.”

 

**SCENE 9**

It's been hypothesized that the soul is located somewhere in the human brain, the engine of intellect. Democritus believed that, like all matter, it is made up of atoms. When a person dies, those soul-atoms are dispersed like infinitesimally small cookie crumbs. 

Humans have thought that the soul is in the heart, or the blood, or the breath. In the latter case, that breath is a remnant of the original breath God exhaled into the _first_ Adam's mouth. 

Our Adam doesn't know where his soul is. Before getting dragged into his brothers' world, he didn't even believe in it. Certainly, he can't _feel_ it. 

But he can feel Michael within him all the same, a faint flicker of St. Elmo’s fire. 

You could ask him to point to his pancreas and he could probably do it, but that’s just because that’s where it’s _supposed_ to be, not because there’s any kind of real sensation from that body part. Adam’s sense of Michael is exactly the opposite. _Where_ the archangel is hiding, he can’t say, and yet there’s a sensation of _twoness_ , of cohabitation...of presence.

 

**SCENE 10**

‘ _You were near death, your soul so ravaged that I am even now holding it together for you. And Adam, I was much diminished as well. I am still recovering. We both are. Whatever we have done to one another in the past, we are entwined now. If I leave your body, you will die. It is possible that I will die, too, but I cannot say for sure.’_

Michael’s voice in Adam’s head (because Adam can’t think of anywhere else it could be coming from) is stern, but tinged with exhaustion. 

‘ _I will not control you,’_ he says, _‘but I will remain with you all the same.’_

 

**SCENE 11**

The first drops of rain fall against Adam’s upturned face. He sneezes and then climbs to his feet. He’ll have to find somewhere to sleep, somewhere to eat. 

“So what, do I get any special powers out of the deal?” 

‘ _Whatever is at my disposal,’_ Michael replies. _‘I owe you a debt that cannot be easily repaid. What would you have me do?’_ The archangel pauses. _‘Keep in mind that I am still my father’s servant. I will only consent if I may, Adam.’_

“Sam and Dean—“ Bile rises in Adam’s throat. “My brothers.”

‘ _What of them, Adam?’_

“Sam wasn’t in the Cage with us,” Adam states flatly. “He got out somehow. It’s obvious, isn’t it? Dean busted him out and left me there to _rot_.”

Michael is very still within him. 

Then the archangel says, _‘You would have justice.’_

 

**SCENE 12**

Gabriel would tell you that somewhere, Adam was able to find it within himself to forgive. It took many years, and it wasn't easy, but eventually he got to a point where the name "Winchester" didn't make him break out in a cold sweat. 

And maybe in some worlds, he cast Michael off like an old coat grown too small. In others, Michael stuck around in one form or another: as a constant internal companion not unlike a conscience, or in worlds where he was able to find a suitable vessel, a gradual friend. Maybe even something closer than that.

And whether alone or with company, Adam pursued the things that round out a life--a home, a car, a job he enjoyed, nights spent under warm blankets, weekends at the movies, money problems, money windfalls, friends, lovers, children. 

Somewhere, he was happy.

 

**SCENE 13**

But Adam says simply, “Yes.”

\----------------------------------------------

 

**2010 – Dean**

 

**(u)**

It’s almost like a shadow of how things used to be, with Dean driving, Jesse silent in the backseat, and Castiel riding shotgun. 

Dean can feel the angel’s eyes boring into him and it’s putting him on edge. Finally, he snaps, “ _What_.”

“Where are we going, Dean?” It’s always hard to tell with Cas if he’s unhappy or just himself.

Dean feels his ears heat up. “Wichita,” he chooses at random, and instantly regrets it. He wracks his brain for an excuse to go anywhere _but_ Wichita.

“There’s vampires in Abilene,” Jesse pipes up gravely from the backseat.

“Oh my God,” Dean says, secretly glad for the excuse to focus on something _besides_ Cas, “how do you even know that?”

He’s almost surprised that Jesse doesn’t cite Wikipedia. “I joined some sites,” Jesse says vaguely, and Dean wonders if they’re the same sites Sam used to be a member of. The thought sends a pang right through him.

“Dean,” Cas says.

“Eisenhower was raised there,” Jesse, ever helpful, adds.

Cas exhales through his nose. “I’m sorry you thought—“

“No,” Dean says roughly, “No, we’re not doing this right now, Cas. End of story.”

But Cas was once a soldier, and though he’s used to following orders he’ll never be very good at knowing when it’s time to quit soldiering on. “I’m trying to tell you that we have _bigger_ problems than vampires.”

“Like what? We don’t have any problems. I’m happy. The antichrist is happy. Everyone’s happy, Cas, we’re gonna go gank some blood-suckers and the world probably isn’t gonna end any time soon, so _what problems do we have_?”

Dean is aware that he is shouting and he can’t seem to control himself. 

Why the hell anyone puts up with him, he doesn’t know. He pulls the car over and leaves it running even as he ducks out into the open air, breathing hard and trying very desperately not to panic.

He knows they need to talk about it. He just doesn’t think he can bear it. And he knows he’s about to lose it but it’s so, so hard to stop.

The problem is that back in West Mineral Dean had just let Cas climb into the Impala like it was something natural, like there was no other _question_ about where Cas would be going. 

Like he belonged there.

Jesse had pulled Dean aside and whispered, “So angels are real, right?” And Dean had said, “They’re not like in the movies, okay, they’re—well, most of them are complete dicks.”

The fact that Castiel hadn’t overheard them when before he could hear a pin drop from two rooms over is even more proof that he is no longer an angel of God--just a slim-framed, messy-haired man in dire need of a shave, the kind of guy most people would toss their spare change to.

The passenger side door opens and Cas slides out ungracefully, still uncomfortable in his body. He approaches Dean with purpose written all over his face.

"How long've you been back?" To Dean's shame, his voice cracks on the question.

When Cas speaks, there is no longer the weight of destiny in his deep voice. "Three days," he says.

And that's...unexpected. It's been eighty-two days since Stull Cemetery.

“Where were you before _that_?”

“I don’t know. I don’t think I was anywhere.”

They’re on the side of a highway and the few cars passing by create intermittent gusts of air that whip Cas’s shirt around his hips and force Dean to squint. It looks like it is going to rain, great gray clouds gathering overhead. 

“Are you saying you were dead again?”

“I’m saying I don’t know,” Cas repeats stubbornly.

“And you expect me to just believe that. Welcome you back with open arms, is that it?” Dean doesn’t know he’s going to step up into Castiel’s personal space until he’s already done it, one hand slapping against the side of the car. The report makes the former angel flinch. 

“I need your help,” Cas says, eyes downcast.

“I needed _you_ , man.”

“You don’t understand. I haven’t had any contact from Heaven in all that time I was…elsewhere. Dean, it could be civil war up there.”

“Does it matter? They kicked you out, Cas! I mean, look, I know how you feel but if things are going to shit, what do you think _we_ can do about it?” This close, Dean can see the uneven rise and fall of Cas’s chest. Once upon a time, Dean had in a fit of boredom timed the space in between Cas’s breaths and it was always, always exactly point seven seconds, then five on the inhale and five on the exhale. Unfaltering, unchanging. Angels do _everything_ with deliberation; forgetting to breathe, as Cas is doing now, is a human thing.

“I’m tired, Cas, so tired of running in circles, because that’s all we’ve been doing. Even rebelling is playing right into _someone’s_ hands and at the end of the day, it’s you, and me, and, and Sam and everyone else, we all have to pay the price. Haven’t we given enough yet?”

“ _They are my brothers_ ,” and now it’s Castiel’s voice that is breaking. “I was no different from them! Their friendship was the price I paid for _you_ , Dean.”

“Not for me,” Dean says with sudden clarity. “You wanted freedom, Cas. You can’t just take a little of it, and still hold on to what you were before. Man, you can’t have it both ways.”

At that, Cas finally looks up, his pupils dilated with anger. “And who taught me to desire to be free?”

There’s a knock against the Impala’s back glass, and Dean glances over to see Jesse peering baldly back at him. The boy rolls the window down enough for Dean to hear the familiar peals of his ringtone coming from the glove compartment.

He turns to give Cas a this-isn’t-over look, but the angel—and Dean knows he will _always_ think of him like that, actual species designation be damned—is already stalking away from him. 

 

**(v)**

They don’t make Abilene until well after nine p.m. On the way, Jesse and Cas actually manage to have a startlingly involved conversation about theology that bores Dean to tears as he stews in silence. 

As soon as they check in to the only motel in town, Dean leaves the angel and the former antichrist to argue over the shower while he goes to “investigate” the local dive.

It’s a shady bar like a million others he’s languished in and he dedicates himself to getting well and truly shit-faced. At least that’s one thing he’s good at. 

If there is a nest of vampires in the area, they’re lying low because none of the locals have noticed anything out of the ordinary. Dean flirts with a brash woman in a bright pink tube top and by closing time he has her number shoved in the pocket of his jeans, though he turns down her offer to leave together. 

“Then maybe some other time, sweetie,” she says. Dean gives her his best panty-melting smile, but his heart isn’t really in it.

Cas is waiting by his car when he staggers out into the parking lot.

“’M gonna walk back,” Dean mutters, brushing by him to check the lock.

“Dean,” Cas says warily, “about earlier—“

“Not now, Cas, I’ve got no inhibitions ‘n I might say some stuff.”

The suggestion of a smile curls on Cas’s full lips. “That’s the idea, yes.”

“You know what I me-eean.” The last word is drawn out as Dean’s feet betray him, but before he can make his acquaintance with the asphalt, Castiel is sliding up under his arm. They scuffle a bit but eventually Dean gives in and lets Cas lead him. The arm around his back is warm and strong, and Cas smells like cheap soap. 

Small towns shut down after dark, so there’s no one to see them making their way through the night together, two old friends with the heavy weight of suspicion still palpable between them.

The kitschy motel sign is in sight when Cas finally says, “You were right. About me, and about my brothers. It’s too late for turning back.” He casts one furtive look in Dean’s direction. “I’ve chosen my side, and I can’t keep putting the blame for that on you, Dean.”

That pulls a chuckle from Dean. “Guess…maybe I had a little to do with it. I fuck up everything I touch.”

Cas only shakes his head, not bothering to argue the point. 

In the morning, Dean will remember falling into bed, his boots still on, and begging Cas to turn off the bathroom light. He won’t remember the soft look Cas gives him, or the gentle brush of the angel’s fingers against his hair.

 

**2010 – Sam**

 

**fifty-two**

Whatever angel mojo Gabriel put on the motel room to keep the door and window impassable apparently _does_ only work from the inside, because the housekeeper has no problem getting in.

“Lost my key,” Sam says by way of explanation, which earns him a confused stare. The housekeeper, a trim woman in her fifties with Kool-Aid red hair, looks like she wants to tell him that locks don’t work that way, but she just nods and goes to grab her cart.

Sam takes the opportunity to slip out. He stands for a moment on the walkway, blinking in the muted late afternoon light. The scenery is limited to a small parking lot with a building like an island in the center of it that boasts a blinking red OFFICE sign. There are a few cars on this side; the motel itself wraps around to the other side of the central office, larger than Sam expected. He briefly considers hot-wiring one of the cars, but it’s too dangerous out here in the open. 

Hitching it is, then.

He takes off towards the highway, his long legs cutting the distance easily. Wonders how long it will take Gabriel to notice he’s gone.

 

**fifty-three**

And then two things happen at once:

First, there is a loud blare and flash of lights on the highway as a fire truck pulls out of the volunteer fire station next door to the motel (which Sam finally notices is called the Lucky Strike, the name emblazoned in neon overhead). Cars pull over as the fire truck passes and Sam is so distracted that he doesn’t notice the other thing until it’s almost right under his nose.

He looks down as a kid runs right into him, almost knocking him over. Sam takes in a shock of thick black hair, a worn red sweatshirt, the trailing laces of the kid’s sneakers. The kid’s hands are scratched up, clutched awkwardly around three sweating canned drinks from the drink machines outside the motel’s office. 

“You okay?” Sam says.

The kid mutters, “Sorry,” and is scurrying away just as quickly as he appeared.

At first Sam can’t put his finger on what it is about the kid that is so familiar. He didn’t get a good look at his face. But it seems important, it…

 _Oh my God_.

 

**fifty-four**

The kid has already ducked around to the other side of the office and Sam is suddenly finding it hard to breathe. It’s like he’s running through water, he’s moving _so slow_. So hard to believe that it’s a coincidence, but what else could it be? When Sam finally reaches the far end of the motel, he sees the kid disappearing into a room in front of which is parked the car that was practically Sam’s home for most of his life.

The door to the room the kid entered is still half open and Sam can _see_ them—Jesse passing the canned drinks to Dean and the angel Castiel, Dean groaning and pressing his can to his forehead, something he used to always do when he had a particularly bad headache.

 

**fifty-five**

Dean looks much the same as he had in 2007, except a little more ragged, tiny lines framing his eyes. It seems like it takes forever for Dean to notice Sam standing there in the parking lot, unable to move because he’s just so goddamn _happy_ to see his big brother again.

For a long moment they stare at each other. Sam feels all the blood rushing out of his head. 

Then Dean’s hands relax as shock registers on his face and he starts forward, his familiar rough voice calling out, “Sammy--!”

Sam is tripping over his own legs to get over there, and he _swears_ if he cries he’ll never forgive himself. 

 

**fifty-six**

“I’m not dreaming,” Dean says again after the second round of holy water dousing. 

Sam is still shivering when Dean finally embraces him, his arms as strong as they ever were even when Sam was just a kid and Dean was his idol. Who is he kidding, Dean is _still_ his idol. So Sam just holds on tight for a bit and when the brothers pull away they both pretend that they aren’t looking away to hide damp eyes and their own slight embarrassment. 

“What’d they do, de-age you down there?” Dean says, and beside him, Castiel’s brow furrows as if he, too, would like to know. “You look like you’re fresh outta college, Sammy.” 

“The truth is…” Oh great, the part he _hasn’t_ been looking forward to. 

 

**fifty-seven**

Sam clears his throat, shying away from the expectant gazes of his brother, his brother’s angel, and Jesse Turner, who has fallen into line behind them like a miniature Bodyguard-era Kevin Costner. 

“Sam,” Dean growls, “What the hell’s going on?”

There is a whoosh of misplaced air behind Sam. Oh for God’s sake, Gabriel’s timing is _so_ off it isn’t even funny. Team Free Will 2.0 all do this collective thing where their eyes narrow simultaneously. It’s kind of hilarious. 

But when Sam turns around, he realizes very quickly that he’s in quite a bit more trouble than he bargained for.

 

**fifty-eight**

“This is just a regular family reunion,” Adam says dryly.

Adam looks better than he ever has before. In Sam’s borrowed memories, his younger brother has red-rimmed, haunted eyes, hollow cheeks, a tenseness in his muscles that never seems to leave him. But now he’s rosy-cheeked and strangely beautiful, power radiating off of him in tangible waves. When Adam meets Sam’s eyes, an electric buzz goes up Sam’s spine.

Adam reaches for him and then Sam is flying through the air, landing hard against the asphalt. All the air leaves him and for a moment, the world goes black.

 

**fifty-nine**

How long has he been out? Sam squints up at the pale gray clouds that blanket the sky, trying to think past the pain building behind his eyes.

“You know you deserve this,” Adam is saying calmly. Sam rolls over, sees Castiel in a crumpled heap not far from where Adam threw Sam. Sam reaches over to check his pulse; it’s there, but faint. It’s clear that something has happened to Cas, because even Sam can tell that this is not the same angel who took down a Horseman of the Apocalypse practically single-handedly. 

Dean and Adam are staring each other down, and the latter has one hand out-stretched towards Jesse, who is folded in on himself in wordless pain. Blood is streaming from in between the kid’s fingers, which are clutched to his stomach. 

“Don’t even think about it, Sam,” Adam says without turning around. “Come on, Dean, I think it’s a fair bargain. I’m gonna kill you both either way. At least this way your friends get to live.” 

Dean glares, his desire for a weapon so strong that his trigger finger is twitching. Of course they’d come out unarmed. 

_This is my fault_ , Sam thinks, despair rolling over him. 

“Why are you doing this?” He is struggling to get to his feet, the world spinning around him. “Adam, we’re _brothers_.”

“You’re no brothers of mine!” Adam snarls. “You left me down there for twenty fucking years, alone with a homicidal angel and the goddamn devil! If Michael hadn’t’ve busted me out, I’d _still_ be down there!” His pupils are so dilated that he looks possessed. “Look at you, Sam, you were never even in the Cage. They grabbed you right from the maw, didn’t they, because hell is _too good_ for Sam Winchester, right?”

“That’s _not_ what happened,” Sam tries to say, but with a motion, Adam forces him down on his face again, pressing in until the asphalt drags a painful scrape of skin from Sam’s cheek. 

“I. Don’t. Care,” Adam says.

“So what,” Dean says, shaking with helpless fury, “now you’re gonna off us both and that’ll make it all better for you?”

“No,” Adam smiles, “but I’m gonna do it anyway.”

“I won’t kill Sam,” Dean says, steel in his voice.

Adam shrugs. “In that case, I’ll kill him,” and there’s that icy smile again, “and then your buddies here, and only after I’ve satisfied myself with them…only then am I gonna get to you, Dean, because I hate you most of all.” 

 

**sixty**

All this noise they’re making, how has no one come out of any of the motel rooms or the office? 

As if reading his mind, Adam says, “Because they’re all sleeping like the dead, Sammy. I’m not a total asshole. You know, I forgot to thank you for your help. Dean here apparently has a bunch of sigils inside of him, courtesy of his guardian angel. Had the damnedest time tracking him.” 

Sam cries out as Adam bears down even harder on him, the bones of his face aching with the increased pressure from above. Where the _fuck_ is he pulling that kind of power from? A horrible suspicion pops up like an exclamation mark in the back of Sam’s mind, but he buries it deep in case Adam really can discern his thoughts. He tries to keep his uninjured eye open, concentrating on his younger brother’s movements, his voice. It’s difficult because he wants nothing more than to look to Dean, but if he’s right…if he’s right, they could all be dead in a _second_.

“And _you_ ,” Adam continues, “You’ve been hiding, too! Those seals on your location only work while you remain in one place, Sam. How could you give yourself away like that?”

“Maybe…” Sam gasps, bluffing. “…I wanted you to find me.”

 

**sixty-one**

And though Sam hasn’t really had much use for that other Sam’s memories, there is one thing that comes to him now: distance was never an issue when communicating with angels. Dean used to unintentionally summon Cas all the time, and Cas would know exactly what they’d been up to because he’d been paying attention to them all along.

Sam _really_ hopes someone is paying attention now.

“Oh, I doubt that,” Adam says darkly.

 _Gabriel, I need you_ , Sam prays as hard as he can, and by the sudden intent look on Adam’s face, he can tell that the boy is aware of what he’s doing.

Dean comes out of nowhere, a streak of movement that crashes into Adam from behind. The impact barely moves the youngest brother, but Dean falls to his knees, cursing with feeling, his hand grabbing for his obviously injured shoulder.

Jesse, who has long since collapsed on himself, is staring at Sam with bloodshot eyes, one small hand upturned on the tar. His mouth is moving, and the pressure on Sam is letting up just enough for him to manage a nod of understanding.

Sam’s line of sight is interrupted by a pair of men’s dress shoes; it’s hard to tell, but he is pretty sure this is Gabriel, clad in a dark wool suit and looking so unlike himself that for a second Sam is actually afraid. 

The day is cloudy, but the shadows of Gabriel’s wings stretch out over them all—three pairs, spanning the entire motel parking lot.

For once, the archangel isn’t smiling.

 

**sixty-two**

“Michael’s inside of him,” Sam manages to grunt out.

Gabriel doesn’t look at him, his gold eyes fixed on some point in the distance. Something seems to have sucked the heavy wet air away from them, replacing it with the chemical scent of ozone. The ground beneath Sam’s cheek shudders just a little, more of a pulse than a quake. Adam has gone very still, watching the archangel with quiet anticipation. Dean is sprawled on his back, blinking up at the sky and struggling to inhale.

For one horrified second, it occurs to Sam that Gabriel more closely resembles the things that go bump in the night than an angel of the Lord. 

 

**sixty-three**

When Gabriel finally spares a glance for Sam, Sam gets that same feeling he’s had a few times already—a suspicion that, to Gabriel, he’s just a bug under a microscope. A curiosity. An _experiment_. It’s so unnerving. 

“So I’m thinking we should take this somewhere else,” Gabriel says casually. Not to Sam, but to Adam, whose face is twisting with some unidentifiable emotion. 

On the ground, Dean laughs wetly, blood slicking his teeth and lips. “Oh, this just keeps getting better.”

Now Adam’s expression has settled and he says, “Hello, Gabriel.” His voice is in a higher register than usual. He must be channeling Michael now, Sam thinks.

“Never thought I’d catch you actually _sharing_ a body with a human,” Gabriel remarks. 

“I owe the boy a debt,” Michael replies serenely.

“Yeah, well, you’ve made my charges look like something out of a Saw movie. Was that part of the bargain?”

“He wants justice,” says Michael, inclining his head slightly.

Gabriel’s brow furrows. “Wow, you’ve changed a lot, bro. I was kinda thinking you’d put up more of a fight.”

“Oh, I haven’t started fighting yet,” Michael says with some surprise. “But for the record, I know what you have been attempting to do…and you’ve changed as well.”

A command booms in Sam’s head— _Close your eyes!_ —and he does, without thinking.

When he opens them again the two archangels, and by extension, Adam, are gone.

 

**2010 – Adam**

 

**SCENE 14**

It’s not much of a fight. Adam huddles in the back of his own mind as Michael is easily defeated by Gabriel. Neither archangel even bothers to shift to their true forms; Adam can feel Michael’s certainty that it is a losing battle from the start, his powers too dimmed from the Cage to stand a chance against his brother, who is in perfect form.

“Where’s your sword?” Gabriel asks conversationally. 

Michael sort of grunts. “Used it to seal the Cage. Is this Scotland?”

“Yeah. Got a meeting with the King of Hell later. You know how much I value convenience.”

 

**SCENE 15**

As Gabriel raises his own sword for a final strike, Michael goes down on one knee and Adam can feel the bits of the archangel that are entwined throughout his soul blaze with a fire that is, for once, more comforting than it is aggressive.

“I would like to lay out the terms of my surrender,” Michael says quietly.

Gabriel’s sword lowers only fractionally. “Come on, Michael, when’ve you _ever_ surrendered to anyone? Especially me.”

“Never,” Michael admits. “But perhaps…in the past, there was nowhere else to go. What I want now comes with the condition of relinquishing what I no longer need.”

Gabriel’s eyes widen with understanding. His grin, when it comes, is incredulous. “Aw man, didn’t think you had it in you. All right, what d’you want me to do?”

 

**SCENE 16**

There would be no escaping death this time.

Adam feels, once more, the bitter pull of betrayal when it is all over and a black-clad reaper is standing over his motionless body.

He’s been cast aside again. It’s getting old, this cycle he seems to be stuck in. Suddenly, he doesn’t even care that the Winchesters still live despite his best efforts. It’s probably some bullshit like destiny that keeps those two alive; Adam can’t think of any other reason for their miraculous and constant evasion of what he is now facing. 

 

**SCENE 17**

“Are you taking me to Hell?” Adam—what is left of him, the part of him that Michael would designate his soul—is beginning to fracture, the wounds left behind from his first tenure in the Cage breaking open without an archangel to act as sealant. 

“No,” says a firm voice from behind him.

Adam turns around, and he can’t help it that hope rises in him like a little bird. 

For the first time, Adam can see the archangel clearly. This isn’t the Michael of the Cage, his fury always covering him, or the weak creature that had hidden within him for a few weeks after their escape. The light that Adam finally realizes isn’t _surrounding_ Michael, but is a part of him, no longer burns Adam’s eyes; it’s beautiful, like looking into the heart of a star. All three of Michael’s faces are focused on Adam like he’s the only thing in the world. For a being that’s so far from human, a very human expression is etched on the middle face, the one that is most familiar to Adam. When Michael becomes aware of Adam’s scrutiny, the archangel actually covers his faces with his multitude of wings.

“Don’t…” Adam flushes, and wonders how it’s possible to feel so _alive_ now that he’s dead again. “Don’t do that, please. I want to look at you. Is that all right?”

“Adam,” Michael says seriously, but he allows his wings to flutter back again. 

 

**SCENE 18**

The last time Adam was in Heaven, he was reliving his prom night in a perpetual loop, but his priorities have changed a little bit. Alive, he still looked like a kid in his early twenties; it would be more accurate to say that he is a middle-aged man. After all, he spent twenty years losing his mind in Hell. He’s grown up a lot.

One second, he’s with Michael in a field in Scotland, a reaper watching them with unhurried solemnity. The next, he’s sitting on a bench in a park so familiar to him that he thinks he could be stricken blind and still navigate it effortlessly. 

He can see his house from here. He makes no move to leave, though.

He knows, without knowing _how_ he knows, that he is waiting for someone.

Sure enough, he looks over and Michael is sitting beside him. He is in the guise of a human—perhaps some past vessel, or what Michael remembers of it. But even with the messy hair falling into his eyes, and the cute dimples in the apples of his cheeks, it is still clearly Michael. Adam thinks that he could probably recognize the archangel anywhere now; there’s a feeling he associates with him. It’s difficult to describe it but it’s there all the same.

It’s like: the warmth of sunlight on his naked back.

The smell of early spring, earthy and wet and living.

The spark of a car battery coming to life.

 

**SCENE 19**

Adam clears his throat and smiles when he notices that he’s wearing a Superman hoodie. He'd always wanted one of these as a kid. His simple childhood desires must be bleeding into his Heaven. 

He hesitates only for a moment, because at the end of the day he’s only a man, and a broken one at that.

Oh well. In for a penny, in for a pound.

“So are you gonna stick around?” He asks bluntly and is gratified by Michael’s obvious discomfort.

“You are still recovering from…” Michael makes a vague gesture. “If I leave, it would not go well for you, Adam.”

“You’re hiding me from the other angels, too,” Adam says. When Michael gives him a questioning look, he adds, “I can just tell. This is a safe place.”

And it must have been just the right thing to say, because Michael, for the first time, laughs, leaning forward with his elbows on his knees and genuine joy in his eyes. “Yes,” he says, “it is.”

 

**SCENE 20**

The fact is, everyone deserves a happy ending. When anger is standing outside your front door, it can be hard not to let it come inside and rule your house. This holds true for both men and angels. But anger is a destructive force; it will upturn your furniture and tear down your curtains, burn marks in the carpet and then leave you with a shell of what you once had. Sometimes, you just have to let it go. 

Sometimes, you have to take a deep breath and look to the people who mean something to you and allow the little hope bird to flutter through you unfettered.

Free.

 

**2010 – Dean**

 

**(w)**

A few weeks have passed since the showdown at the Lucky Strike motel. Dean and Sam were the most grievously injured and are taking the longest to heal, physically; Cas just suffered a minor concussion and Jesse, once the dust settled, _believed_ himself uninjured, so when Adam and Gabriel disappeared the boy picked himself up off the ground and went along as though nothing out of the ordinary had happened.

It was Jesse who assured Dean and Cas that new!Sam was legit, and who finally figured out that Adam had been telling the truth about old!Sam not being in the Cage. “It’s like a piece of paper,” the boy said thoughtfully, “and you hold it over a candle, and it just burns until there’s not even ash left—“

And Dean had to leave the room to be sick, which was just embarrassing. 

New!Sam had a mass of bruising all along one side of his body where he’d been pressed into the asphalt, but as he admitted to Dean, he was a few years younger than old!Sam so he wouldn’t have looked exactly like the brother Dean lost not so long ago anyway.

It’s downright disturbing, is what Dean thinks.

Dean has surreptitiously called Bobby a few times, seeking ways to test for…for anything, really, anything that could be wrong with Sam.

It makes a cold knot of guilt grow in Dean’s belly, but he can’t stop. Not until he _knows_.

Sam’s not stupid. He catches on pretty quickly to what Dean is up to.

“Dean, I’m _not_ a revenant,” Sam says irritably one evening after catching Dean in the middle of an elaborate divining ritual in their motel’s bathroom.

Dean wipes at the symbols drawn on the tile, disgusted. “Goddamnit, it doesn’t make any sense.”

Sam spreads his big hands, exasperation plain on his too-familiar features. “I’ve told you everything I know, okay? If you wanna know more, you’d have to get…” He swallows, suddenly uneasy.

“Yeah, I know,” Dean says, “'Gabriel’s the timelord or whatever, ask him.' Lemme just go pick up a phone and call the guy, oh wait.”

The problem is that Gabriel hasn’t shown up since taking Adam away. Dean has seen Sam typing away at his laptop, because apparently Gabriel is in his Facebook friends list or something, but Sam always ends up disappointed and obviously hurt. Dean would tease him about his girlish crush, but he’s kind of starting to suspect that he wouldn’t be too far off the mark.

 

**(x)**

It’s almost impossible not to make a mental list of comparisons between old!Sam and new!Sam. So Dean gives up trying not to.

(1) Sam eats like a fucking horse. That’s because he’s at least an inch shorter than old!Sam and still growing. 

(2) He cares more about offending Dean and the extra attention is really making Dean uncomfortable. One evening they get into a minor physical scuffle over the last beer in the mini-fridge that ends with them both sprawled out on the carpet, cursing good-naturedly, and from then on Sam is more laid-back with his insults. 

(3) The weary resignation and helpless anger that had become almost a second-skin to old!Sam is all but gone. This Sam is one Dean has missed more than he is willing to admit. His laughter is open and eager, and though he seems to remember what happened to them over the past three years, he’s barely touched by it. For the first time in ages, Dean feels comfortable just hanging out with his brother. When they’re well enough to travel, the four of them get the hell out of Kansas, heading for South Dakota because Sam wants to see Bobby but they’re really in no hurry. Jesse is teaching Cas how to play Crazy Eights in the back seat and Sam is lying back with his long legs stretched out, a peaceful look on his face as he tells Dean about some kind of German food he wants to try again.

It’s hard for Dean, one hand on the wheel and one resting on the hood of the car, air whipping past him as the Impala eats the miles, to believe that this is really his life.

 

**(y)**

“You seem…content,” Castiel murmurs, coming to stand beside Dean, who is leaning up against the hood of the car, stretching out his driving-cramped legs. 

Sam (slowly but surely, Dean is forgetting to tack the “new!” designation on) and Jesse are asleep in the Impala, both snoring obnoxiously. Dean looks up at the wide, starless sky and grins helplessly.

“It’s like I’ve got another shot at it,” he admits, his voice hushed as if by saying it out loud, it all might disappear. “To get things right. Like we’ve been sent back to the beginning somehow. Cas, I’m so scared I’m gonna mess it up.”

“You won’t,” Cas says with such faith that goose bumps rise on Dean’s arms.

“So…” Dean coughs, trying to change the subject. “You seem pretty happy yourself.”

“Oh.” Cas glances at him, blue eyes almost black in the darkness. “Gabriel told me some things, before he left.”

Dean makes the gesture that means freaky-angel-telepathy, and it’s a testament to how well Cas knows him that he completely understands what Dean is getting at. 

“Yes,” Cas says. “He told me not to worry about Heaven. He said…he said that all would be well, and that I should…”

Dean waits, but the silence stretches on.

“You should _what_?” he prods impatiently.

Cas can’t seem to meet his eyes and if Dean didn’t know any better, he would swear that the angel is…is _blushing_. 

A strange compulsion rises in Dean, one that he’s almost sure is going to get the better of him one day.

 _Maybe sooner than later_ , he thinks dazedly, and he can’t help the way his gaze keeps dropping from that funny little spread of color on Cas’s cheekbones to the bee-stung curve of the angel’s upper lip.

 _Oh my God_ , he realizes later, after Cas has fallen asleep next to Jesse in the backseat, the horizon brightening with the first glow of morning. _I was about two seconds away from jumping the guy._

 

**(z)**

When you’ve been through the kinds of things Dean Winchester has been through, you learn not to let a little thing like a crisis of sexuality get in your way.

He’s only a bit uncertain when he corners Castiel behind Bobby’s house a week later and presses the angel against the flaking whitewash of the shed. Castiel’s eyes are wide as Dean brushes their mouths together but when Dean finally pulls away, he sees that Cas has followed Dean’s lead and squeezed his eyes shut. 

It’s kind of girly, but Dean can’t resist laying a light kiss on each of Cas’s eyelids. And then his cheeks, and the sharp line of his jaw, and from there, it’s all kind of a blur.

A very nice blur.

 

**2010 – Sam**

 

**sixty-four**

One night a few days after getting his ass kicked by his archangel-possessed little brother, Sam dreams that he is wondering the streets of Bonn, Germany—sober this time, and alone.

The weather is colder than he remembers, the ceiling of pink flowers thinning as the petals fall around him like he’s stuck in some romantic anime. 

After a while of walking back and forth down the strangely deserted street, he hears Gabriel fall into step beside him.

He chances a glance at the archangel, unaccountably nervous. 

He should apologize, probably. Or maybe duck and cover, because from past experience he knows that angels can be kind of volatile—doubly so, angels who have impersonated pagan gods for centuries.

Gabriel huffs a laugh. “I’m not going to kill you, Sam, geez. That would be a complete waste, don’t you think?” He’s not wearing the scary suit he’d worn in Abilene, just his usual casual style of t-shirt and khakis…and flip flops, despite the chill temperature. “And don’t even think about saying you’re sorry, because I figured you’d try to get out of that motel room come hell or high water. You’re a hard guy to pin down.”

“I could say the same of you,” Sam says. Then, curiously, “Where did you keep going, when you left me?”

Gabriel’s eyes widen with false shock. “You didn’t figure it out? Sam, I’m disappointed in you. Obviously, I was taking up the mantle of the Messenger of God—“ His voice deepens dramatically. “And messaging everyone in Heaven until they stopped trying to kill each other.”

Sam tries to parse that. “Wait, are you saying you were acting as a diplomat?”

The archangel rolls his eyes. “That sounds so uncool, but yeah.” He sighs, reaching out to catch a few falling pink petals only to begin tearing them into little pieces as he and Sam trudge along. “It’s something I should’ve stepped up to a long time ago, I guess. Turns out, I’m pretty good at it. It’s starting to seem like things are gonna be okay up there, ya know?”

“But…” 

“Go on, I know your curiosity is killing you.”

“Did you know that all of that—“ Sam makes a face, looks over to find Gabriel taking a bite out of a candy bar. The writing on the wrapper is in German, and Sam is impressed by his consistency. “—the stuff in Adeline—I mean, was that all intentional? I mean, not only was _Dean_ there, but Adam too, and it just…it seems kind of convenient, right? That we all just happened to be there, at that one motel in the middle of nowhere…” Sam trails off, feeling awkward. It sounds like an accusation.

Gabriel chews in silence for a long moment, and then he says, “Do you believe in coincidence?” Like he really wants to know the answer.

“Not really,” Sam says honestly.

Gabriel shrugs and after a while Sam figures out that if Gabriel had anything to do with it, he’s not going to admit to it.

“But what I don’t get,” Sam begins, and then he’s startling awake, the alarm going off right next to his bed. Cas and Jesse are sleeping on the floor, mismatched blankets pooled all around them and he watches them untangle themselves before finally rolling out of bed himself.

 

**sixty-five**

No matter how many times he looks, Sam can’t find Gabriel online anymore. Anonymous830407 is always unavailable, so Sam has to assume that the Gabriel from three months ago (technically, longer than that now) is too busy to talk to him anymore. 

The frustrating thing is that the Bonn dream seems to be a one-time thing. Maybe Gabriel feels that he’s done his duty and has moved on to bigger and better things.

The thought inspires a surprisingly deep sense of abandonment in Sam. He’d thought…well, he isn’t sure what he’d thought. That they were friends? It seems ridiculous now in the light of day, almost a month since the last time they spoke. 

He tells himself that he has no room to complain. Life is better than it’s been in a very long time. He and Dean seem to finally be returning to some sense of normalcy. Their little group meshes amazingly well together, and the ride up to South Dakota is one of the best ones Sam can ever remember sitting through. Cas and Jesse play card games and then argue cheerfully about the nature of absolute power, with occasional input from Sam until Dean pointedly turns up the radio. Sam finds out that Cas has a really nice singing voice, but Jesse’s voice could break glass. Jesse apparently believes this, too, because he actually cracks the rearview mirror by accident, but he repairs it with a glance as soon as he notices what he’s done. Dean doesn’t even see it happen and Sam and Jesse share a secretive look over his head.

So it’s all good, even once they get to Bobby’s house and the explanations are finished and Bobby has given both Sam and Dean a surly, one-armed hug. 

They stay for a few days, still trying to decide where to go from there. Sam and Dean have long talks, throwing around the idea of getting a permanent place of their own now that they don’t have to worry about the world ending around them. Eventually, though, they get restless for a hunt and Bobby finds them one in Iowa.

Sam knows something has changed when Dean pays for two rooms at the motel they find just within the state line. Dean gives him a half-challenging, half-sheepish look but Sam just says, “Yeah, kind of saw that one coming,” which earns him a light punch on his left arm. 

Jesse must have seen it coming, too, because he doesn’t complain when he finds out he’s rooming with just Sam despite the fact that the kid plainly worships Dean. 

They lounge in front of the TV for a bit, Sam remembering all those hours he’d spent watching the Dean Show. 

Without the distraction of beer or any immediate threat, or even his brother and Cas making sexy-eyes at each other, Sam finds his mind wandering into areas he wishes it wouldn’t.

Like how much he misses chatting with Gabriel, even about stupid things.

And how if Gabriel was here, he’d be bored out of his mind and demand to know if Sam spoke Swahili…or something.

It’s ridiculous to pine over an archangel, Sam tells himself, because it is. Sacrilegious, even.

Also, not very manly at all.

But he finds himself not caring, and pining (just a little) anyway.

 

**sixty-six**

Light streams in through the floor-to-ceiling blinds, but Sam is awakened by the sharp thing nudging against his forehead.

He bats at whatever it is, then remembers that it could be something that wants to kill him and is reaching under his pillow for his gun before he registers that it’s Gabriel poking at his face.

“Hey,” the archangel says when he sees that Sam is awake. He stuffs his hands in his pockets. The morning light frames him like one of those religious prints, and that thought makes Sam reach up to cover a sudden, artless smile. 

“Hey,” Sam says, affecting the same somber tone.

“Iowa, huh?”

Sam yawns, stretching like a cat under the sheets. He can’t help but notice the way Gabriel’s eyes follow the line of muscle down his naked chest. Sam: one, Gabriel: zero. It feels like it’s going to be a good day.

“Got a lead,” Sam explains, resting his head on one upturned hand and staring up at Gabriel with another one of those disconcertingly open smiles that he can’t seem to wipe from his face. “Don’t think Dean and Cas are gonna be up for a few hours, though,” he says, his smile shifting to a smirk.

“Ah,” says Gabriel. “In that case…what are your opinions on Swahili cuisine? I’ve been meaning to test it out.”

Sam’s eyebrows rise almost to his hairline; at the same time, he can feel heat flooding his face. Oh Jesus, he’s got it so bad. When he’s able to speak without, he hopes, humiliating himself, he says, “Well, I’m always open to new experiences.”

 

**LAST**

“Here's what I don't get,” Dean says to Sam one night as the two are laying back on the hood of the Impala, doing the brotherly-bonding thing. It's kind of nice, Sam thinks, when it's just the two of them like this. Plus, Cas needed clothes that weren't borrowed from Dean, and weren't his one Blue Oyster Cult t-shirt, and Jesse volunteered to play Mom and go shopping with him. So here they are, in some nondescript parking lot, parked far enough from the entrance of the store Jesse picked that there's no danger of anyone seeing them knocking back a few beers. The stars are huge above them, like holes cut in the fabric of the sky. 

“Shoot,” Sam says, pillowing the back of his head on his arm.

“Why'd he do it? I mean, why go through all the trouble of bending space and time like that? Seems like a lot of effort for someone who was so set on keeping to himself. Am I missing something?”

“I dunno,” Sam says, thoughtful. “Maybe it was worse, whatever he saw coming. Hell, Dean, you could ask why about literally anything that's ever happened to us.”

Dean's profile is dark, but Sam can hear him frowning. “I guess.”

“Or, if you think about it, why anything ever? Why did God make all of--” Sam waves his hand, unable to think of an appropriate word. “-- _this_ , and then go off and leave it to pretty much run itself?”

“If there is a God,” Dean feels the need to tack on.

“Right.”

“That's pretty deep stuff, Sammy. The liberal arts paid off, huh?”

“Dude, that was old _years_ ago,” but Sam's smiling anyway.

Dean elbows him in the side, and they start trading friendly insults. It occurs to Sam that he no longer cares about the whys. They don't really matter so much as the whos and the whats and the wheres.

Picture: two boys staring up at an endless sky, time slipping by them in carefully measured steps. 

A black '67 Chevy Impala, an open tarmac, the crispy warning of autumn in the air. 

Even if God's not in heaven, Sam thinks that, for once, all is right in his world.

 

**THE END**


End file.
